“But I…”
“What the hell have you got there?” He took a long step forward and snatched the pad out of her hand. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s a forensic sketch.”
His head snapped up and he stared, his face darkening as his anger grew into outright fury. “What, you saw the son of a bitch? You got this good a look? Why in the hell didn’t you radio in a description? We could’ve been looking for him by now!”
“He was long gone by the time I got here.”
Johnson flashed the pad at her. “So you just pulled this out of your ass?”
She grappled for patience. “No, it’s based on ambient magical energy left behind by the murder.”
“Ambient magical…” The sergeant gazed around the room as realization dawned. “Oh my God, this is another human sacrifice.” A complex blend of emotions flickered across his face: dread, horror -- and the sick triumph of a man who sees his worst suspicions proved correct.
Damn Norm. She fought her temper until she could manage the controlled, polite tone a smart woman used with superior officers. “No sir, though someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look that way.”
Johnson eyed her suspiciously. “If it was magic, would you admit it?”
“Yes. Sir.”
“But if this was done by people like…”
“I am nothing like the kind of people who make human sacrifices… Sir.”
“You use magic.”
“You use a gun. Does that make you a mass shooter?”
Offended, Johnson lifted the notebook, reaching for the top sheet as if about to rip it out.
“Maybe,” a mild voice observed, “We don’t want to have a loud argument about a murder case in the hearing of possible witnesses. Like the ones gathering outside.” Detective Grant Sawyer stood in the doorway, Jake at his shoulder. A hint of temper steamed under Sawyer’s bland expression. Jake looked worried. “I assume that’s not evidence you’re getting ready to rip up?”
Johnson shot Erica a poisonous look. “Harris was doodling instead of securing the scene.”
The detective held out a hand, and the sergeant reluctantly passed over the pad. Sawyer studied it. “Hell of a doodle.”
“It’s an arcane forensic sketch,” Erica said through tight lips.
“That’s one of Harris’s magical talents.” Jake gave Johnson a hard look. “When I served with her in the Corps, she could walk up to the scene of a bombing and draw a dead-on likeness of the guy who did it. We caught a lot of terrorists that way.”
Johnson sneered. “If they were terrorists, and not just some unlucky bastard that happened to resemble whatever she pulled out of her ass.”
“The Corps doesn’t assume anything when it comes to Arcanists.” A muscle flexed in Jake’s square jaw, and his eyes narrowed. “Harris was tested extensively before she was certified. They found she had an accuracy rate of ninety percent.”
“Which means for every hundred people she fingered, ten of them were innocent.”
“Unless I get a strong impression of the guilty party, I don’t do the sketch.” Erica gave the notebook a tight nod. “I got a very strong impression on him.”
“You didn’t follow procedure, Harris,” Johnson told her, almost biting off the words. “You should have secured the scene, and then asked permission to do the sketch from the detective once he arrived.”
“Sir, the psychic energy from a violent crime dissipates quickly. The longer you wait, the more you lose. If I’d waited too long, I would not have been able to do a sketch at all.”
“Quit arguing with me before I write you up,” Johnson snarled. “Get your ass out there and string that tape, and keep the lookie-loos from destroying any more evidence than they already have.”
“Not yet, Sergeant,” Sawyer put in, stopping her before she could turn to leave. “Harris, do we have another human sacrifice case on our hands?”
“No sir.” Erica outlined her conclusions, pointing out the fake sigils and her belief that they must have been drawn following the murder instead of the other way around.
Sawyer took notes, writing in a rapid scrawl and firing questions at her until he was satisfied. “Go string that tape, Harris.”
“Yes sir.” She pivoted on one heel and stalked out, feeling as if her cheeks were on fire.
Jake followed her like a big masculine shadow, unspeaking. He watched as she popped the trunk of her patrol car and got out the roll of yellow tape. The words CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS repeated along its length in black block letters. “You okay?” he asked quietly as she turned toward the road.
“Just awesome.” A small crowd of people had already gathered at the foot of the driveway. Evidently neighbors, attracted by all the police cars parking up and down the road in front of the house.
“Why don’t I give you a hand with that?” He took the roll out of her hands and they worked in silence stringing the tape across the driveway, then encircling the yard with it, looping it around trees and telephone poles.
“Do you think Johnson’s right?” Erica asked at last as they tied off the last section of thin plastic. “Did I contaminate the scene?”
Jake snorted. “Not as much as an ambulance crew trying to do CPR and leaving a trail of rubber gloves and syringes.”
She gave him a dry look. “Thanks a lot.”
“You miss my point. We try to minimize contamination of the scene, but in real life, shit happens. Did you walk around handling stuff without using gloves?”
“Of course not.”
“And if you hadn’t been there, would Sawyer have known the scene was staged?”
“Not unless he brought in another Arcanist.”
“Then there you go. You did your job, Erica. Yeah, procedure is procedure for a reason. You don’t want to hand a defense attorney something he can use to get his client off --”
“I know that,” she interrupted.
“Of course.” Jake caught her arm and met her gaze, lowering his voice. “The real lesson from this is that Johnson’s gunning for both of us. He doesn’t trust us, he doesn’t like us, and he doesn’t think Talents should be cops. We can’t afford to give him any ammunition. So be fucking careful.”
In her frustration, she had to work at keeping her own voice low. “It’s so damned unfair, Jake. I prevented a mass casualty event at Potions Friday. I saved lives with the magic he hates, and he’s still treating me like crap.”
“Baby, that’s why he’s treating you like crap. Nothing pisses off a bigot like being proved wrong.” He grinned toothily. “Which is what makes it so much fun to do.”
“Channeling Dave now?”
“Naw. Dave would bite him on his bony ass.” He snapped his teeth together.
Despite herself, Erica laughed.
“What’s so damned funny?” The voice was high with fear and anger, its shrill note cutting across her chuckle. The short, chubby blonde pushed through the crowd and charged toward them, her arms pumping. She wore green hospital scrubs printed with the grinning faces of Spongebob Squarepants and his assorted undersea friends, neon green running shoes on her feet. “Where’s Rachel? My mom called and said one of the neighbors told her she saw the coroner’s van pull up…” Her voice got louder with every word, as if she was building toward hysterics.
Oh hell, Erica thought, spotting the resemblance to Rachel in the shape of the woman’s face and the line of her nose. Her aura was barely visible even to Erica’s gaze in the bright afternoon sunlight, but red and yellow churned through it. At least she had nothing to do with the murder. She’s hurting way too much to have been involved.
Jake stepped forward, intercepting the woman, and held out a hand. “Deputy Jake Nolan.”
She took it and gave it a single squeeze. “Elaine Royce. Rachel’s my sister. Is she all right?”
“Let me get some information and someone will be out to talk to you…”
Elaine’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like me try
ing to avoid telling a patient bad news. Is she dead? Did the son of a bitch kill her?”
“What son of a bitch?”
But Erica barely heard Jake’s suddenly intent question. Her attention had fallen on the small group of neighbors clustered behind the woman. Their collective aura -- hard to separate with everyone standing so close together -- shone dimly in the shades of green that usually meant curiosity or excitement, swirled with red and yellow from those who knew Rachel and worried about her.
Except for one swirl of pale ice blue tinged with pink surrounding someone in the back of the crowd. Colors that denoted satisfaction and pleasure. She’d once seen a similar aura around a terrorist bomber watching a girl’s school burn.
Unfortunately, Erica couldn’t quite see whoever owned this particular betraying aura. Intent on getting a closer look, she started toward the aura’s owner. The crowd shifted uneasily as she approached. A tall, older man in the back of the crowd moved aside, revealing someone standing behind him. Erica broke step.
Thinning hair swept back from a long, bony face with a crooked nose and a weak, scarred chin. And there you are, you son of a bitch. Pasting a carefully neutral expression on her face despite the anger blasting through her, Erica made a beeline for the suspect.
His eyes widened, and his aura yellowed with alarm. Dropping his gaze, he turned and strode in the opposite direction, both hands thrust in his jacket pockets. I don’t think so, jackass. Erica lengthened her stride, barely noticing as the crowd ducked out of her path, radiating curiosity and alarm. “Sir!”
He lengthened his stride, his shoulders tensing under his jean jacket. He’s getting ready to run. She broke into a jog. “Sir, I’d like a word.” And if you don’t give me one, I’m going to kick your ass.
He threw a glance over his shoulder. As if realizing how guilty he looked, the suspect stopped, turning toward her with a patently fake expression of surprise on his face. “Is there a problem, officer?”
“I’d say so. What your name? Can I see some ID?”
The yellow in his aura intensified, suggesting building panic. “My name’s Keith Ormond.” He started to reach into his pocket.
Erica tensed, but there was no silhouette of a gun against his aura. He pulled out his wallet and thumbed through it, visibly stalling for time as he tried to think.
“How do you know Rachel Bryer?” Erica demanded, her tone as icily suspicious as she could make it. Sometimes it paid to scare the hell out of a suspect just to see what shook loose.
He glanced up, hesitating just a heartbeat too long. “We used to date. Broke up a couple weeks ago. She okay?” The tone was concerned, but the flare of satisfied ice blue rolling through his aura suggested he knew damned well she wasn’t.
“Keith? What the fuck are you doing here?” Elaine hurried toward them, her eyes narrow and suspicious. “Did you have something to do with this?”
Jake followed a pace behind her, close enough to grab the woman if she lost it. Erica was glad to see him; she had the feeling she was going to need his considerable muscle.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ormond snapped, before adding to Erica, “This bitch is crazy.” His defensive tone sounded suspicious as hell even to someone who didn’t know him.
It sounded even worse to Elaine, whose eyes flew wide as the furious red of her aura flared until it was almost blinding white. “You did it, didn’t you, you bastard? You killed my sister!” She leaped at him, her hands curled into claws.
Keith lunged to meet her, one fist drawn back. “You watch your fucking mouth!”
Erica plunged between them, throwing up an arm to block his punch. Before it could land, Jake locked a big fist in the collar of Keith’s jacket and jerked him backward. “I don’t think so.”
Grabbing the suspect’s wrist with the other hand, he twisted it behind the man and jacked it up hard between his shoulder blades, forcing him onto his toes.
“Let me go! That bitch ain’t talking about me like that!”
“Murderer!” Elaine screamed, fighting to get at him as Erica struggled to control her without doing damage. “You beat her and now you fucking killed her! I told her you were a no-good son of a bitch, and I was right! Murderer!”
Keith threw a wild look around at the neighbors who stared at them, many with hard-eyed expressions of belief.
“She told me she was afraid of him,” a pregnant redhead called. “Christopher plays with my Jimmy all the time, and I’ve seen Rachel wearing bruises from Keith’s fists more than once.”
Ormond’s aura went egg-yolk yellow with panic, laced with orange swirls of deception. “That’s bullshit! I didn’t do nothing. A witch killed her! There was a pentagram…” He broke off, his eyes widening with sick realization.
“Who said anything about a pentagram?” Jake asked in a silken voice.
He was searching Keith, Erica comforting the sobbing Elaine, when Johnson walked up. “What’s going on?”
“I didn’t do nothing! They’re lying!” Keith bellowed.
Erica saw Johnson’s eyes widen, and she knew the sergeant had just recognized the man from her sketch.
She frowned. Now why did your aura just go yellow?
* * *
“I’ll take care of it.” Virginia Laurel’s voice sounded cold and flat as a serial killer’s.
Roger’s hand tightened convulsively on his cell as he paced the length of his garage. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
He didn’t believe her. But what the hell was he supposed to do about it?
“You’ve been quiet a little too long,” she told him. “You’re starting to make me uncomfortable.”
“I’ve never given you any reason to doubt my commitment.”
“Not so far.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t think you need to know the details. If it makes you feel any better, you can take care of the guilty party afterward.” The line went dead.
Johnson sagged back against his car. A thought flashed through his head, making his stomach clench even tighter. If Erica Harris survived whatever Virginia had planned, would the next drawing show his face?
Maybe he’d better have a word with Scott Clary. It might be useful if the deputy and his three Humanist thugs went after Harris. Might not help, but if they could bully her into snapping, maybe she’d get herself fired.
Which would be better than getting killed.
* * *
“I thought you said that little bitch didn’t have any power!” Virginia Laurel’s voice sounded a bit high through Adrian’s Bluetooth earpiece, as if she was edging toward panic. “What if she draws something that identifies me?”
Rocking back in his seat, he contemplated the sketchpad and the tattoo design he was working on: The Angel of Death, complete with flaming sword. “Calm down. You’d have to actually shed blood at a crime scene for her to sketch you.” And you never handle your own dirty work. He leaned in to add a swirl of detail to the flames. “Anyway, it won’t be a problem because I’m going to take care of her. I have a couple of --”
“I don’t want to know.”
He rolled his eyes. You lost plausible deniability a long time ago, lady. Not least because of the Pearl Harbor File he’d been keeping for the past year. He had no intention of using it, but it paid to be prepared.
When push came to shove, people like Virginia tended to throw the hired help under the bus. He had no intention of listening to the crunch of wheels. “You have nothing to worry about,” Adrian lied. “Discretion is part of the service.”
“It had better be.”
He hung up, beating her to the punch again.
Frowning, Adrian beat his pencil on the sketchpad. He had underestimated Harris, much as it pained him to admit it. She had more juice than he’d thought if she could draw an accurate forensic sketch at a murder scene. Why in the hell was she working for some podunk police departmen
t when she could be making a lot more money in the private sector?
Must be another idealistic idiot. There were entirely too many of them in this town. They were becoming a pain in his ass. Frowning, Adrian doodled a sigil in one corner of the sketch: the swirling shape for death.
The question was, how was he going to take care of the cop? Normally, the simplest ways were best. Find a good spot near her house, set up with the sniper rifle, and pop her when she headed out to her car in the morning. Since he’d brought his Spook Suit in case he needed to be invisible, she’d never see him coming. And neither would any inconvenient witnesses.
Unfortunately, anyone with that much magical sensitivity might very well sense she was being targeted. That wouldn’t do at all. If she ducked at the right time and he simply wounded her, she might be able to sketch him.
Cops being cops, her department would promptly release the sketch to the public. There were people who knew him in this town who might drop a dime on him. He wasn’t worried about the HHers, who were firmly under his control. But one of his neighbors was a different story. Or, hell, the guy who worked in the convenience store where he bought his coffee. Anybody.
No, Adrian couldn’t afford to pull the trigger himself.
Luckily, that’s why he’d cultivated the HHers -- the possibility he might need disposable accomplices. The trouble was, none of them were professionals, which made it entirely too likely they’d fuck it up.
Adrian needed to come up with a plan that was both simple enough for them to pull off, with multiple built-in opportunities to kill her if they screwed one up. Which was going to require some thought.
It took him an hour to figure out a plan with a decent chance for success. Then he started making preparations.
First he phoned Virginia and asked her to nail down Harris’s patrol zone with her sheriff’s department contact. She called back half an hour later with the information he needed.
Too bad he couldn’t simply call the contact directly and find out where she’d be at a given time. Unfortunately, that would be the equivalent of setting up a flashing neon sign over his own head, if the cops ever started putting the pieces together.
Arcane Heart (Talents Book 2) Page 12