by Viehl, Lynn
Her hands fisted in his hair, and she curled over, bringing his mouth to her lips. The carnal explosion of that kiss brought him to the edge, but it was the feel of her hand reaching into his trousers that sent him over. The moment she touched him he groaned and shoved the head of his straining penis against her palm, and released the first aching stream of his seed.
“I have you,” he heard her sigh.
Chapter 12
Sam looked through the two-way mirror at the suspect sitting in the interrogation room. A tanned, somewhat overweight man in his early forties, he wore an off-the-rack business suit, a wide and rather ugly yellow tie, and a fake Rolex. “That’s our killer.”
“Alleged killer.” Garcia glanced down at the clipboard in his hands. “He’s Eugene Gates, forty-three, divorced, no children. A pharmaceutical rep. Couple of speeding tickets.” He handed her the arrest report. “He gave the desk sergeant a bloodstained diamond necklace, but hasn’t offered a motive.”
Sam looked past him at Jonah Massey, who stood just outside talking with one of the janitors. “What’s he doing here?”
“I want Massey in there with you.” Before she could reply, Garcia shook his head. “The DA wants a full confession on videotape. That means two officers present, my lady.”
It also meant she couldn’t use l’attrait to compel the suspect to tell her the truth. “Massey,” she called, and was momentarily distracted by the hamster-wheel squeak of the janitor’s wheeled bucket as he pushed it out of sight down the hall. “Can you run a video camera?”
Massey ducked inside. “In my sleep.”
“Then you’re in charge of taping and typing.” She handed the clipboard off to him.
Inside the interrogation room Sam pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table, noting the complete lack of reaction from Gates. The suspect, who seemed content to continue staring at a long scratch in the table’s Formica top, didn’t even twitch when she went through the introductions.
“Mr. Gates, I’m Detective Samantha Brown.” Sam turned the chair around, straddled it, and nodded at Jonah. “This is Detective Jonah Massey. Have you been informed of your rights?”
Gates nodded slowly.
Sam breathed in but didn’t smell any taint in the air that might indicate the man was stoned or drunk. “Sir, I’ll need you to answer me with verbal replies.”
“Yes, I’ve been informed of my rights,” he told the scratch. “I murdered Noel Coburn.”
Gates spoke in a monotone. That, combined with his vacant expression and lack of body language, suggested he was mentally handicapped, was in a state of shock, or had been sampling his wares a little too liberally.
“We’re going to videotape this interview, Mr. Gates. What you say in this room will definitely be used against you in court. Do you understand, and consent to that?”
“Yes.”
Sam nodded to Massey, who switched on the camera and recited the time, the date, and their names for the record. What she needed to do first was see if she could shake Gates out of his parrot act. “What’s your middle name, Eugene?”
He looked up at her as if expecting her to provide a hint. When she didn’t, he frowned and thought about it. After thirty seconds, he said, “Victor.”
“Do you know what day it is?” After he answered that just as slowly, she sat back and studied his face. He had the remains of a summer tan, but it had taken on a yellow cast, and the skin around his mouth and under his chin looked loose. He smelled of soap, and his clothes were clean, but his fingernails looked as if he’d been digging in the dirt for days. “What did you have for breakfast this morning?”
He licked his lips with a dry tongue. “Nothing.”
“How about dinner last night? Lunch yesterday?” Before he could answer, she asked, “When was the last time you ate anything, Eugene?”
It took him a full minute before he replied, “Three days ago.”
Massey whistled. “That long, huh?” A candy bar landed on the table in front of Gates, and when Sam glared at Massey, he shrugged. “The guy’s probably hungry, right?”
“Hungry.” Eugene reached out with his cuffed hands to pick up the candy bar. “Right.” He tore off the wrapper and crammed the entire bar into his mouth, closing his eyes as his cheeks bulged and he chewed.
“If he chokes on that, you’re writing up the reports,” Sam told Massey. She waited for the suspect to swallow before she said, “Mr. Gates, I can get you some real food, if you want.”
“Real food.” He nodded, and seemed unaware that tears were rolling down his face.
He’s been starved. Sam felt an unwilling sympathy for the man. “Before I order a meal for you, I’d like you to tell me about the last time you saw Noel Coburn.”
“The last time … was in the garden.”
“Was this your garden?”
He shook his head. “She made it for us. She was nice. She kept us in the garden as long as she could.”
Sam frowned. Murder suspects could invent all kinds of imaginary reasons to be found temporarily insane at trial, but Gates didn’t seem to be phonying it up. “Eugene, have you been using some of the stuff in your sample case?”
“No.” He turned his right wrist back and forth, jangling the cuffs and a bracelet around his wrist.
Sam leaned over and tugged back the end of his jacket sleeve. Gates wore a MedicAlert bracelet, and when she turned over the oval tag, she saw a list of serious allergies to substances that included opiates. “Did anyone else give you drugs?”
“No.” He stared down at his bracelet. “Gold.”
The bracelet was the classic MedicAlert red and silver on a silver chain, so he wasn’t talking about that. “What’s gold, Eugene?”
His eyes met hers. “Hell.”
Massey uttered a soft, urgent sound, and when Sam looked at him, he made a swirling motion with his finger beside his temple.
Sam felt inclined to agree with him, but she had to press for details before they could write him off as a potential nutcase. “Eugene, what was the name of the woman who kept you in the garden?”
“Whore.” He lunged across the table at her, trying desperately to claw at her with his hands.
Sam stood and moved out of reach, and just as quickly as he had attacked, Gates subsided back in his chair. “Why did you kill Noel Coburn, Eugene?”
His face reddened as his voice returned to the flat monotone. “He owed me money and he wouldn’t pay. So I killed him.” He looked up at her, his eyes hard and ugly. “You whore.”
“Hey,” Massey said. “Watch your mouth.”
Sam watched his face. “How did you kill Coburn, Eugene?”
He stared at her, his expression confused. “I tied the rope around his wrists, and held it when … when …”
“When what?”
Gates bent over, his face darkening to purple as he tried to open his jacket.
Sam hurried around the table. “Massey, call for a rig.” She loosened the knot in his tie and popped his collar. “Now. He’s having a heart attack.”
Massey ran to the wall phone as Sam released Gates from his cuffs and lowered him to the floor. He looked up at her, his eyes wide as he tried to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth.
“Starting CPR.” Even as she began compressions, Sam knew it was hopeless; she could smell the rot that had already begun to seep into his scent.
Fifteen minutes later Sam stood and watched as the responding paramedics lifted the gurney holding Gate’s draped corpse and wheeled him out of the room. She followed them to the hall, where cops from other departments had come to stand in clusters of twos and threes to watch the body being removed.
As Sam walked past them, she heard one of Dwyer’s old buddies mutter, “Another notch for her nightstick.”
“What did you say?” Suddenly Massey was there, in the jackass’s face, and he looked ready to shove the old-timer through the wall.
Sam stopped and tugged at Massey’s arm. “
Forget it.” She glanced at the blustering cop. “No marks on your nightstick, huh, Dave? Keeping it stuck up your ass is working.”
As the other cops snickered, Massey backed away with insulting slowness, and then walked with Sam to see the paramedics to the elevator.
“I didn’t know how much shit you put up with. You’ve got to dodge it all the time,” he said as soon as the doors closed. “But you never report it. Why?”
“Dave Kernan has already racked up two internal suspensions since January,” she told him, “and since he’s managed to alienate or lose all the friends he had in the department, he can’t afford a third. He’s only about eighteen months away from retirement.”
“Fuck his retirement,” Massey said promptly. “He’s an asshole.”
“True. He’s also got two mortgages, an old crap Caddy that really needs a transmission job, and a wife on an insulin pump.” She regarded him. “As for his nightstick, he’s shoved it so far up his ass you can see the top of it when he yawns.”
Massey grinned. “Now I get you.”
As they walked back to the squad room, Sam noticed a bucket and mop sitting by the stairwell exit, and stopped. “Your pal the janitor needs to learn how to clean up after himself.”
“Sorry, what janitor?”
She eyed him. “The one you were talking to right before we questioned Gates.”
“I wasn’t talking to anyone. I don’t even know any of the janitors.” His scent radiated truth. “You sure you saw me?”
“You were standing out in the hallway, talking to the guy, right over there.” She strode to the spot where the janitor had been standing, and breathed in deeply. She could smell hot metal, and beneath that a trace of something cold and green. Just as she had another time before, but where?
The hallway dimmed as a voice came into her mind. This is nothing to concern you. You will forget it.
Sam couldn’t move. The thing in her head held her somehow, and she could feel it sifting through her memories even as it erased them. She couldn’t stop it—and in a minute, she suspected, she wouldn’t want to—so she focused on what it was. Are you Kyn?
I am like you. A guardian.
No, you’re not. I don’t freeze people’s bodies or rummage through their brains.
Yet you jail and question your suspects. The voice sounded amused. You know Death so well, Samantha. You have devoted your life to the study of it. Yet you remain blind to the gifts it has given you.
I can see fine, pal.
Then look upon what you never saw.
The hallway outside Homicide shifted into the penthouse suite at the stronghold, where she could see Lucan sitting outside on the balcony. A blanket fell from either side of the oversize rocking chair he occupied, and as she walked to him, she saw the limp bundle he was holding in his arms, and her own white, still face pressed against his chest.
He looked exhausted, his handsome face almost as pale as hers, but he sat and rocked her like a baby as he watched the sun rise.
Burke walked past her, a silver tray with a glass of bloodwine in his hands. “My lord,” he said softly. “Has there been any change?”
“None.” Lucan didn’t even glance at the tray. “I want nothing. You may go.”
Burke bowed and turned to leave.
“Herbert.” When the tresora returned, Lucan looked up at him. “If she dies, I fear my sanity will not survive it. Under such circumstances I expect I will lay waste to anything that steps in my path. Rafael mentioned to me that you are a marksman.”
Burke’s throat moved as he swallowed and nodded.
Lucan handed him a pistol. “I’ve loaded it with copper rounds. One to the head to slow me, and the second to the heart to finish it.” He bent to press his mouth to Sam’s brow and tuck her in closer to him. “If you would, carry the weapon at all times.”
Something glistened in Burke’s eyes. “I will, my lord.”
Samantha tried to reach out to her lover, but the balcony vanished, and she stood again in the hallway, still frozen in place. Why did you show me that?
When he tells you that you are his life, daughter, you should know the true meaning. The voice grew more insistent. What the mortal said during your questioning is not important. You will dismiss it.
She smiled. “I can do that, sure.”
Return to the stronghold now. He’s waiting for you, my lady.
“My lady?”
Sam shook off what felt like a vague daydream about Lucan as she turned to Garcia. “Sorry, what did you say?”
The captain frowned. “Were you able to get anything out of Gates before he died?”
“Nothing important.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m going to head back to the stronghold. He’s waiting for me.”
*
Chris had never used her no-limit jardin credit card to buy much more than office supplies, and briefly worried that Lucan had canceled it, but the agent had no problem putting through the charges for the rental car.
“You’re all set,” the agent said as he handed her the keys to the black Lexus. “May I ask why you chose Enterprise for your rental needs?”
“You picked me up at a dock. The only other people who do that are sailors.” She winked at him. “I’ve already got a guy and a boat.”
She drove from the rental agency to the nearest cluster of shops, where she bought a warm jacket and comfortable shoes, along with two weeks’ worth of casual wear and lingerie for herself, and some trousers and dress shirts for Jamys. After brooding over a pair of ripped jeans that she loved but wasn’t sure he’d even wear, she added them to the pile.
One of the salesgirls intercepted her on the way to the cash wrap. “Excuse me, but I would love to show you something special.”
Chris glanced at her overflowing pushcart. “I haven’t bought enough stuff already?”
“Oh, no, it’s just, well, you’re perfect for this unbelievable dress we have in Petites.” She glanced at a thick-bodied overdressed woman rummaging through a nearby rack. “We don’t get many petites in here.”
Chris glanced at her watch. She had left Jamys sleeping in the cabin, and the sun wouldn’t set for another three hours. “So show me this dress.”
In the Petites section the salesgirl went to a rack of holiday dresses and removed a sleek, shimmering black sheath that looked as if someone had slashed it with scissors.
“I know it looks like crap on the hanger,” the salesgirl said quickly, “but it’s totally different on. It was made for someone with your figure.”
Chris looked down at herself. “I have no figure.”
“Yeah, which is why I’m kind of hating your guts right now,” the girl admitted.
Chris chuckled as she took the dress and headed into the dressing room. A few minutes later she came out and went to the nearest full-length mirror, where she saw a gorgeous stranger wrapped in long, slinky ribbons of black.
“Holy cow.” She had no reason to buy something this beautiful and useless, but she wasn’t sure she could make herself take it off again.
The salesgirl appeared behind her holding a pair of matching black platform heels, a tiny beaded black bag, and a headband of black crystals. “Could you? Just so my hatred is completely justified?”
Chris added on the accessories and then gazed along with the salesgirl at the results. “Damn. You have a business card, right?”
“Yeah.” The girl absently dug one out of her pocket and passed it to her as she kept staring. “Damn.”
Chris paid for her purchases and packed the bags into the trunk of the rental before she walked over to a sandwich shop to grab something to eat. She discovered she didn’t have much appetite, but forced down a salad and a tall glass of orange juice anyway.
Her next stop was a drugstore, where she bought a selection of first-aid supplies and took them into the customer restroom. The cut on her thigh had already started scabbing over, and thanks to Jamys probably wouldn’t become infected, but as per her t
raining she cleaned it and applied a new adhesive bandage.
Chris had always imagined taking on the responsibility of providing blood for a Kyn lord would be a little revolting. It wasn’t that she was squeamish; she didn’t mind the sight or smell of blood or the pain of the small wounds required to start the flow.
The thought of being used as someone’s food was what had troubled her; she was a person, not a Happy Meal.
Helping Jamys this morning had dispelled all her worries. When she’d realized how weak he’d been, she hadn’t even hesitated. Watching him drink from the cut she’d made on her thigh had made her feel strangely protective, almost possessive. That had quickly turned into very divergent feelings as soon as his hands grasped her leg.
She should have known. Burke had warned her that sometimes blood wasn’t the only thing Kyn wanted while feeding on a mortal, especially if there was any kind of physical contact. He hadn’t mentioned how badly the tresora would want it, though, and maybe that had been on purpose, to keep her from finding out.
She didn’t regret being intimate with Jamys. How could she? He’d made her light up like Las Vegas, and after that horrible nightmare of being trapped in that tomb, she’d needed it. Her only real regret was that she hadn’t done much for him in return—but secretly she’d loved that, too. How many women could honestly say that they got their guy off with a single touch?
Chris parked outside her final stop, a community blood bank that was one of many owned by the tresoran council. All she had to do was show her jardin identification at the desk and they’d bring her a large cooler stocked with fresh units. Two coolers, if she wanted that much. She had no reason to feel guilty about getting it.
I can’t go on feeding him myself every day, and it’s too dangerous for him to hunt. This is the only alternative.
At the desk inside a smiling young woman greeted her, and then inclined her head in the public shorthand for a bow as soon as Chris placed her ID on the counter. “Will your lord be coming to Miami tonight, Miss Lang?”