by Cynthia Eden
Smith gave a hard nod. “Fine.”
That seemed to be her favorite word, but from what he could tell, the lady was definitely not fine. Okay, so he’d been mistaken about her.
A trip to the psychologist sure might be in order for the ME. Well, actually, she’d already been to one. The department had demanded that she go see a counselor before coming back on duty. He just wasn’t sure the person she’d seen had helped her.
Maybe Colin’s lady could. Dr. Drake sure seemed to know what she was doing.
Smith pushed out of her chair. The wheels squeaked as the chair rolled behind her.
Todd stepped forward instinctively.
She lifted a hand. “Don’t even think about it. I just missed breakfast, okay? My blood sugar is too low.”
If that was the way she wanted to spin it ...
Smith moved toward her desk. “Prelim is done on Michael House.” She lifted a file, handed it to Todd. “I could’ve just sent this up, but ... I needed to talk to you.” She cast a quick look in Colin’s direction and after a brief pause said, “Both of you.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Colin nod.
“So what’s the verdict, Smith?” Todd asked. He’d read the file later—every word—but when he worked a murder, he always liked to talk face-to-face with Smith—or Phillips, if that idiot was subbing for her—because he could learn more from the death doctors that way. His gaze darted to the left as he wondered where House’s body was. In the vault behind him? Sewn back together all nice and neat?
He really didn’t know how Smith did her job. Fighting criminals, finding the bodies, that was hard enough. But working with the dead, every day and night, hell, that was a whole other ball game—a gruesome, give-you-nightmares game.
“Well, I haven’t got the tox screen back yet. Even with a rush order to the lab, it’s going to take longer . . .”
“What have you got?” The woman was hedging.
She exhaled. “Not a hell of a lot.” For an instant, she looked just like her old self. “The guy was in good shape, a nonsmoker. Thirty-five. No diseases or defects—”
“We know this,” Colin broke in, voice tight, arms crossed over his chest. His usual intimidating stance.
“No, I don’t think you get me,” she snapped right back at him. “The guy was in good shape. There was no sign of coronary artery disease—”
“Wait a minute—you’re telling us the guy didn’t die of a heart attack?” Todd asked, his own heart beginning to race faster.
Smith hesitated. Cast another quick look at Colin. “I’m saying the guy’s heart was in great condition. Hell, the best heart I’ve ever seen in my ten years down here.” She rubbed the back of her neck.
“How did he die, Smith?” Todd pressed.
“I can’t determine the cause of death yet. I told you . . .” Impatient now, her eyes narrowed, “I won’t have the tox screen for several days yet.”
Colin slowly uncrossed his arms. “So you brought us here to basically—what? Say the guy was healthy? No offense, Smith, but you could have told us this shit on the phone.” He was obviously angry, and Todd was starting to feel the same way.
Too little sleep. Too few leads. Too many bodies. And, shit, if he went back up to the captain, told him their latest vic was a prime specimen of health who’d just happened to drop dead in the middle of some sex games, McNeal would kick his ass all the way back down to the Crypt.
“There was no sign of trauma. No contusions.” She shook her head. “The man’s body was in perfect condition. Inside, and out.” Another hesitation. “At first.”
“He was—what?” His temples throbbed. “What do you mean, ‘at first’?”
Smith reached for her white gloves. “Detectives, there is something you’ve got to see.” She walked across the room, her feet hurriedly tapping on the white tiled floor. She stopped beside a gurney. Her hands reached for the plain white sheet that covered the body. “I took him out of storage a few minutes before you arrived.”
Todd hurried to her side. Colin flanked him.
She pulled the sheet down, a faint tremble in her hands. “Check out his chest.”
Michael House’s flesh was chalky, the dried-out color of the dead. And on his chest, right over his heart and cutting across Smith’s careful stitch work, a very clear impression had formed.
The outline of a hand.
“No fucking way.” Todd leaned down for a closer look. Caught the cloying scent of the body. Fought to control an instinctual gag.
“Those are what I think are fingers.” Her gloved hand moved to the top of the marks, her index finger tracing the pattern. “The side of the hand. The palm.”
He could see it. Perfectly.
“When I began the autopsy, this injury wasn’t there.” Her hand paused over the dead man’s chest. “I sewed him back up, started the arrangements to contact the family, then I checked him again and the mark ... just appeared.” Smith’s lips pursed for a moment. “It was lighter in the beginning. This is the darkest I’ve seen it.”
It was the weirdest damn thing he’d ever seen.
“Bruising can be caused postmortem,” Smith spoke softly, thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of a case where a guy’s body was pulled from a river. Later, bruises appeared on the arm that the cop grabbed to haul the guy out of the water.”
“Are you saying that you pushed House’s chest too hard?” Colin raised a brow, waited.
“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m saying this mark you see right here,” she tapped the spot, “appeared in five minutes. This isn’t just some bruise—”
“No, it isn’t.” Todd was adamant on that.
The mark wasn’t a bruise. He’d learned long ago that bruises could often show up after death and he’d certainly seen his share of those while haunting the Crypt with Smith. But this—this was different. This was the faint tracing of a hand in black, like someone had put a hand against the victim’s chest and literally drawn a line around the edges. The interior of the mark was empty, and if the mark had been the result of a blow, Todd figured there would have been a middle pressure mark or deeper finger grooves.
Shit. It was almost like fucking art. The perfect design of a hand. He exhaled. “Were the other bodies like this?”
Smith’s hand lifted. Balled into a frustrated fist. “No idea. That idiot Phillips marked ’em as natural causes. Both heart attacks. He had the bodies in and out of the Crypt—too fast.”
The bodies were already in the ground now. It would take a court order to exhume them and see if the handprint was on their chests.
His gaze dropped once more to the print. It was like someone had just touched the guy, and killed him. “You’re sure—absolutely one hundred percent certain—there was no internal trauma to the chest?”
She bared her teeth in a hard smile. “I’m sure I can do my job, Detective.”
Yeah, he knew she could, too. Smith was the best and they were damn lucky to have her and her kiss-off attitude on staff.
He studied the mark, frowning. Fucking odd. He lifted his hand, let his fingers hesitate over the outline.
Smaller than his by a few inches.
But then, he’d been a quarterback long ago—back in the day—and he knew he had big hands.
“What the hell are we dealing with here?” He growled quietly. “How is this even possible?”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Smith’s stare snap toward Colin.
Todd stiffened and the hand he’d raised over House’s chest clenched into a fist. Slowly, he lifted his head and turned his attention to his partner. “There something you need to tell me?” He was damn tired of the games. Maybe they should just put their cards on the table. ’Cause going on every day like this, acting like he didn’t know Colin’s secret—acting like everything was, to use Smith’s word, fine, well, that just wasn’t going to keep playing for him much longer.
Not with more weird shit happening—like this handprint on a man that fo
r all intents, shouldn’t be dead.
Colin shook his head.
“You seen this before, partner?” Todd asked, not ready to let the topic drop yet. No way was he going to let the guy hold out on him during this investigation.
Colin’s jaw tensed. “I’ve never seen anything like this print before.”
Todd wanted to believe him.
Partners should trust each other.
Yeah, and there also shouldn’t be any secrets between partners. For a cop, there was no one on the streets who was closer than a partner. No one else watched your back like a partner. No one protected your ass like a partner.
And when you found out a partner had been deceiving you, well, nothing hurt as bad.
Todd’s shoulders stiffened as he dragged his stare away from Colin and glanced back at Smith. “Any other tests you can do on him?”
“I’m running more blood work.” She rolled her shoulders. “This—we need someone with a little more expertise in this area, okay?” Her gaze darted once more to Colin. “I’m out of my element here and—”
“What? Smith, he’s a stiff!” It didn’t get any more in her “element” than that! Todd tried to rein in the anger that wanted to shoot out of him. “The dead are your life.”
She frowned at that. “No. They aren’t.” She shook her head. “Look, maybe we should call in a heart specialist, get a second opinion—make certain I didn’t miss anything—”
“You’re not the missing type, Smith.” Colin’s voice was certain.
Damn straight she wasn’t. Todd opened his mouth to respond, then caught the faint quiver of Smith’s fingers.
Shit. This is her first case back—the lady has to be nervous as hell. “Take your time, Smith,” he told her, his voice softening. “Go over the body again, see what you can find.”
Her eyes narrowed and for a minute, he thought she was going to be the one shooting out anger, but instead, she gave a jerky nod. Okay, the lady obviously wasn’t big on getting sympathy.
Todd glanced at Colin. “We’ve got a problem, man—”
“Yeah . . . we’re gonna have to see the other bodies.”
No choice. Exhuming the dead was a bitch—getting the court orders, dealing with the grieving families—but there was no choice.
“Have you told McNeal about the print yet?” Colin asked.
“I was leaving that to you guys.” Smith pulled the sheet back over the body. Her chin lifted and a brief smile curved her lips. Not really a smile so much as a feral baring of her teeth. “Thought you’d like to give him the info on that.”
Great. Well, they’d have to break the news to the captain pretty fast if they wanted to get going with the bodies.
Colin turned toward the door, paused. “I don’t have to tell you how important it is to keep these details quiet.” He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes locking on Smith.
“No, you don’t.” Her shoulders straightened and a bit of her old fire flared in her dark eyes. She jerked her thumb toward Todd. “But you do sure as hell need to tell your partner what you’re up against this time.”
“Smith . . .” A warning.
Todd tensed. He had that shitty, I’m-in-the-dark feeling again. “Tell me what?”
“Not a damn thing,” Colin snapped. “You already know everything about this case that I do.”
“But you didn’t on the last one, did you, Brooks? Gyth shut you out of the loop and went after the killer on his own.”
Colin growled and the hair on Todd’s nape rose. “Listen up, Smith,” Colin snapped. “The way I see it, you really ought to be damn glad I did go after the killer.” He turned toward her, facing her fully with clenched fists. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be examining dead bodies anymore.” He paused, then said, “You’d be the dead one.” Harsh. Cold.
Smith flinched. “You’re an asshole, Gyth.”
Todd’s eyes widened. Okay, yeah, he had his problems with the guy, but fur notwithstanding, Colin was his partner. And Todd took his loyalties seriously. Maybe too seriously. “Ah, Smith, the guy did save your life.”
She never glanced his way. “You don’t understand what’s happening, Brooks.”
Maybe. Maybe not. “Then why don’t you clue me in?”
Her lips tightened.
Fuck. “I thought so. Colin, let’s get the hell out of here.” He tucked the file under his arm. “You’ve got issues, Smith. Go see Dr. Drake. We need you back to your old self.”
She swallowed. “I’ll never be that woman again, Detective. All the therapy in the world won’t bring her back.”
“How do you know? Letting someone else inside your head could be the best thing you’ve ever done.” He strode to the door. Shoved it open, but didn’t exit. Not the sympathy kind, but too damn bad. He liked the woman, respected her, and wasn’t going to watch her spiral. “I’m worried about you, Smith.” And he was. She was too intense. Too high strung. And holding rage that was all but seeping from her pores. “Get some help. Go see Dr. Drake.”
Emily Drake was, after all, the best in town.
The late-afternoon sunlight trickled through the blinds as Cara lay on the soft leather couch. She stared up at the ceiling and tried to figure out just what she should say.
Ah, hell, just get it over with. “I’ve met someone.”
Dr. Emily Drake, known to her clients as the Monster Doctor, and currently the only psychologist in the South to knowingly treat the Other, slowly lifted her head. “Tell me about him.”
Cara licked her lips. “He’s a cop.” Damn. Hadn’t she heard somewhere that the Monster Doctor was dating a cop? What if the guys knew each other?
“I see.” A delicate pause. “And does he know what you are?” The doctor’s pen was poised an inch above her notepad.
Turning her head slightly, Cara let her gaze fall on the doctor. As usual, Dr. Drake’s black hair was pulled back into a severe bun. Her thin, wire-framed glasses were perched on the edge of her nose. And her green gaze was trained on Cara. “Does he know?” Cara repeated the question softly, then shook her head. “No, even though I’ve . . . dreamwalked with him.”
The pen skittered across the paper as Dr. Drake jotted down a quick note.
“I didn’t mean to,” Cara said at once, then winced. Even though the doctor’s expression hadn’t changed, she still felt the need to explain herself. To justify stealing into a man’s thoughts. “I swear, Dr. Drake, I never meant to join him in dreams.”
“Then why did you?”
If she couldn’t be honest here, in the safety of Dr. Drake’s quiet office, she couldn’t be honest anywhere. “I want him.” The want was a gnawing ache inside of her. An ache that grew worse every moment.
“It’s all right to desire a man, Cara. We’ve been over this before.”
No, this was far different from the men before. “I-I gave up sex.” Said in a rush.
Dr. Drake’s eyes widened and her pen stilled. “Cara, you know you can’t do that. It’ll kill you.”
“No, I don’t think”—okay, she hoped—“that it will. I’ve got an arrangement with a friend. He has this place for the Other. I’ve been singing there for a while. When I’m on stage and have the focus of the crowd, I can the pull their sensual energy to me.”
“But will that be enough for you?”
“I don’t know, it seems to be working so far. I mean, it’s not like there are a lot of succubi around here that I can ask if I’ll be able to survive—”
“No,” Dr. Drake’s quiet voice cut straight through her words. “That’s not what I meant.” She put the notepad facedown. Leaned forward. “Your kind exist for sex. It renews you. Powers you. I don’t know if the situation you have will keep working for you, though it’s certainly a novel approach for a succubus,” she murmured. “But is it enough for you? Are you happy stealing wisps of pleasure, or do you want your own release?”
Her own. Her lips pressed together to keep the words back, but she knew when Dr. Drake lifted one br
ow that the psychologist understood.
“And you want it with him, don’t you?”
Hell, yes. She wanted sex with her cop so badly that she was losing control of the demon inside and slipping into Todd’s mind. “I can’t control him.” Or herself. “I can dreamwalk with him, but I can’t compel him, not when he’s awake. No hypnosis, no—”
“Control is important to you, isn’t it?” She eased back in her chair, casually reached for her pad once more.
“Yes.”
“Because of what happened before? When you weren’t able to stop your sister’s murder?”
Ah, damn, but she hadn’t even seen that one coming. Leave it to good old Dr. Drake to knock her right between the eyes. “Yes.” A jealous lover. A human lover had killed her sister. A man who had managed to learn far too much about her kind, and the weaknesses that demons possessed.
Nina. It hurt too much to think of her now, even years later. Her twin. The only other being who’d ever truly loved her. Who’d understood her. Inside and out.
Killed by that bastard.
She’d made certain he got exactly what he deserved. Sometimes, she could still hear his screams.
She squeezed her eyes shut. No. She wasn’t going back there, not now.
All humans weren’t evil. She knew that. Had long ago come to terms with the fact that monsters resided in men, just as good spirits, good souls, could reside in the bodies of monsters.
Such was the way of her world.
“Do you think that because you can’t control him that this man might one day betray you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” The guy had suspected her of murder and he’d sure been quick to haul her off to jail.
“You came to me in the beginning because you were tired of puppets. Tired of men who turned away from you the moment you stopped using glamour and magic.”
Her nails dug into the cushions of the couch. “Yes.”
“But now, you have a man you can’t control, one who certainly won’t be a puppet. You want him. Tell me, does he want you?”