Bloodstone

by Gwen Hunter

  “Crime scene?” I perked up. “What about the crime scene?”

  Evan relaxed in the chair, took his saucer in one palm, fragile cup in the other hand and sipped his tea as he spoke. “Law-enforcement investigators determined that David’s attackers lay in wait for him for some time. There are positive and negative results from that wait. The positive is that the cops have DNA samples from both men, should they decide to test for unimpeachable ID. But they’re moving toward the negative.

  “Because the attack was well planned, in a location that can only be considered questionable, directly beneath one of only two security cameras in the area, both in plain sight and monitored, investigators are fast reaching the conclusion that David planned the attack himself and wanted it on film. There are dissenting opinions, but they are in the minority.”

  “We heard that theory from Harry Boone,” Jubal said. “The little weasel.”

  Bartlock grinned, the smile lighting his face and banishing the darkness I had seen. “Good description.”

  “Especially his mouth,” Jubal said, “with that little mustache that quivers when he talks. And those beady homophobic eyes that twitch whenever he looks at us, as if gayhood is contagious.”

  “Gayhood?” Isaac murmured.

  “Boone does seem to be leading the majority opinion, though how David staged his own kidnapping for profit is beyond me.” Bartlock tapped the papers in his lap. “His letter and papers might make a difference in that opinion if they were considered as evidence.”

  “Why so?” Isaac asked.

  “Because these papers mention mineral rights to various tracts of land. And raw gold was found at the crime scene.”

  Isaac carefully did not look at me. I stared into my cup. Jubal looked back and forth between us. “Well?” he demanded, one hand on his hip. When neither of us replied, Jubal blew out an exasperated breath, stood and poured Bartlock more tea.

  “Well, what?” the cop asked.

  “They’re thinking. Very methodical on Isaac’s part. He looks at every alternative and weighs every variable before making a decision. Makes him a killer chess player but for his family, it’s emotional torture. Takes him forever to make decisions. He’s a Libra, you know. Tyler will go with her gut. It’s that St. Claire thing, combined with a double Scorpio influence in her natal chart, though it would kill her to admit it.”

  I glared at him, putting every bit of accusation I could muster into the look. Jubal had been looking into the St. Claires way more than he had let on if he knew my natal chart. He had been talking to Aunt Matilda. The very thought sent a shiver of fear through me.

  “Thinking about what?” Bartlock asked him.

  “About—”

  “Stop,” Isaac said. “It’s Tyler’s decision.”

  His dark eyes were on me, and I saw approval in them. Isaac wanted me to tell about the gold. Davie had hired him to take care of us. Aunt Matilda had hired Evan. I should tell; I would tell. But I remembered my attempted scan for my brother. I wanted something first. Despite my headache, I opened myself to the cop and took a chance. “In the alley. At the crime scene. Was the gold they found resting in Davie’s blood?” I asked.

  Bartlock’s eyes swept to me and he frowned at my question. He wasn’t used to being thrown off course, redirected. Wasn’t used to being questioned by a civilian. I got that clearly from him. As a cop, he was accustomed to being in charge. And right now Bartlock had no authorization to command, guide or require anything from anyone. It was a new experience for him, an unpleasant one that brought home to him the changes in his life since he was forced to take part in a man’s suicide scheme. Evan Bartlock was fighting a natural instinct to take control. He was feeling helpless. He wanted to hit something. He was angry at life, at himself, at Aunt Matilda and family demands, and chiefly at the man who had forced him to kill.

  “Yeah. How did you know that?”

  I pulled myself away from his thoughts, closing my wall around me in protection. “Can you get me a bit of the gold from the scene? Some…” I closed my eyes, forced to stop at what I was asking. “Some that was in his blood.”

  “Why?” Suspicion was clear in his voice.

  “So I can try a scan for my brother.”

  “Crap.” The word and the thoughts behind it were like an emotional slap in the face. An insult. “You’re one of the weird St. Claires, aren’t you? Aunt Matty sent me to another one of the weird ones.” He stood, broadcasting his frustration. “I should have known.” Even with my mind closed off I could feel the annoyance seeping from him. The St. Claires are all fakes, charlatans. I’m related to a whole clan of con men.

  I blinked. Aunt Matty? He called the old bat Aunt Matty? “Can you get some?” I persisted, putting aside for the moment that he was working for the weirdest of us all.

  Uncertainty churned with the other unhappy emotions in his mind. “Yes. Maybe. I’ll try.”

  I stifled a sigh of relief and closed my mind to him as I slid from stool to floor. Fishing in my pocket, I pulled out the nodule of quartz and gold wire and tossed it to him. The cop caught it without fumbling the teacup. His eyes grew wide as he turned the raw gold and quartz to the light.

  “Come on. You need to see this,” I said. “But it’s off the record until we figure out who’s responsible for the attack on Davie.”

  “I can’t promise that. Not if it pertains to this case,” Bartlock said, putting the teacup and saucer to the side, napkin neatly folded.

  I stopped and turned, feeling heat rise to my face. “You’re not here as a cop. Didn’t Aunt Matilda pay you to come here? To help Davie?”

  “I’m an officer of the court. That responsibility has my first allegiance. Aunt Matty knows that. And you need to remember that.”

  “You’re willing to let those papers stay out of the investigation for now. Why not other things?” I asked.

  “It depends on what the other things are. My point is that I can’t promise anything until I know what it is.” He held up the gold rough, waiting.

  I crossed my arms and turned a foot out, into the aisle, blocking all progress with my body. “Uh-oh,” Jubal said. Isaac just grinned.

  “Okay. So if you see something that looks suspicious, in your opinion—you, who know no one in this town, know nothing about the political situation or the men and women in local law enforcement—you, an out-of-town cop working off duty for the aunt of the missing man, will take it upon yourself to decide what to do. Unilaterally? With no discussion, no input from us. Or from Aunt Matty.”

  My foot started tapping. “And if you give what we have to the cops, and one or more of them are part of this and you get my brother killed, you’ll just say what? Oops? So sorry?”

  I advanced on the cop, dropping my arms, sending the cross flying back and forth against my chest. Bartlock’s eyes fixed on the movement a moment before returning to my face. He reddened. “No way, Bartlock. We agree right now, that you’ll give us five days with this information before you turn it over. Agree or get out. And I’ll call Aunt Matty and tell her you think she’s a charlatan. I’ll tell her what you call her behind her back.”

  Aunt Matilda was a big stick. His blush faded in a slight pallor.

  I caught a jumble of emotions from Bartlock in that single instant. A memory of Aunt Matilda appearing at his side when he was child. He’d hurt himself and though he hadn’t cried out, Aunt Matilda was there just as if he’d screamed. An image of my own chest as he thought it might look if I had somehow forgotten to dress. A worry that Aunt Matty had sent him here, to me. A trace of thought that perhaps Aunt Matilda wasn’t a con. Maybe she’s the real thing….

  Knowing that he hadn’t been looking at the crucifix but my chest, I stuck it out a bit more, using what leverage I had. “Agree,” I demanded.

  The images from his mind faded. Bartlock sighed and glanced back at Isaac. “She always this way?”

  “Serene and tranquil? Modest and unassuming? Doubtful, vague, almost shy?
Yep. That’s our Tyler. She thinks she’s as big as we are. And she never bluffs.”

  Bartlock turned back to me, his eyes firmly on my face. But I could sense he was fighting looking down. Having opened my mind to him once, I was now reading him too easily. “Great. Okay, five days. Unless we get indications that suggest the cops need to see it, whatever it is, sooner.”

  “And you clear it with us first. No surprises or behind-the-scenes info-sharing,” I said, tying down loose ends.

  “What’s the big deal? You got boxes of gold back there?” His eyes widened at our reactions. “You do? Boxes of gold?”

  “Agree.”

  “Okay. Done. Whatever you say.”

  I led the way to the work area where the boxes were still sitting, the gold-and-quartz rough, the white paper, sawdust and white foam peanuts scattered.

  “Holy…” Bartlock lifted the largest quartz-and-gold rock into the air and turned it, brushing off dried soil and detritus to see it better. “This is from David?” At my nod he shook his head. “How much of this stuff do you have?”

  “All that you see,” Isaac said. “Four boxes. David’s letter stated that there should be five boxes. But we only have four.”

  The cop in Bartlock took over and he reluctantly put down the chunk of mineral and stone. He lifted a box and checked the label, compared it to the other packing crates. “If there’s this much gold in this room, how much is in the ground?”

  “Enough to make a lot of men very rich for a very long time,” Isaac said.

  “And the fifth box?”

  I shrugged. No one else answered. A cell phone rang, a simple ring, not a concerto or a synthesized series of pop music notes. Bartlock pulled his phone and glanced at the readout. It was a cute unit, a tiny acrylic thing in basic black with bright blue lights that pulsed as it rang again. His eyes darted to me. Then to the other two.

  Aunt Matilda. No doubt about it. I was just glad I’d left my cell upstairs.

  “Bartlock.” He grimaced. “Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. I will. Yes, ma’am.” When Bartlock hung up from Aunt Matilda’s tongue-lashing, I expected to pick up a greater sense of frustration and anger from him. Instead the cop seemed calmer and, if not satisfied, at least resigned.

  “Portents?” I asked.

  “You know about the blood-aura?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Now there’s a raven outside her window. And she read some cards and got the Ace of Swords reversed?”

  “Tarot. She probably did a one-card reading. It means a challenge met with the invocation of force, disastrous results and dangerous implications.”

  “You read these cards?”

  “No.” Mama had made me promise to never touch the cards, insisting that Tarot was a medium for the devil. I could still remember the fear in her eyes when she talked about the cards and her St. Claire gift. I didn’t tell Bartlock that, however. It was none of his business.

  “But you believe this stuff. This occult junk. Mind reading, palm reading, tea leaves, bumps on people’s heads.” Scorn dripped in his tone.

  In spite of myself, my hackles rose. “Intuition? Gut reaction? Instincts?” I hated defending the St. Claires, really hated it, but Bartlock was pushing my buttons. “Insight? Perception? You never solved a crime by those? By making an intuitive leap that left your co-workers in the dust scratching their heads, asking how you figured it out?” He reddened again. I got the impression Bartlock didn’t flush easily but something about me threw him off. Could be St. Claire weirdness or it could be the boobs. I wasn’t wearing a bra and it was quite cool in the shop. I was betting on the boobs. Even with Davie in trouble, I liked that. I’m competitive. So sue me.

  “That’s not the same.”

  “Why not?” I grinned happily, knowing I was winning. “It’s something other than logic. Go ahead. Explain using gut instinct and intuition to solve crimes. Tell me you use only reason and deduction. You can’t, can you. No.”

  “You—” Bartlock rubbed his temples with one hand. Took several deep breaths.

  I was betting he’d taken some anger-management or stress-reduction courses. Meditation. Yoga. Self-hypnosis. But now I was pushing his St. Claire buttons. Hard.

  “You’ve still got your five days. Or forewarning, should I need to break that.”

  Knocks came from the front door of the shop. Not delicate knocks a customer might make, but the hard, resounding whams of a fist. Without thinking, I raced into the shop. Quinn and Jane were framed in the glass door. And something was wrong.

  Quinn was upset but trying to hide it. For Jane’s sake I masked my reaction, smiled and hugged her before sending her off with her uncles for a snack and homework. The moment she was out of sight, I turned to the bodyguard and demanded, “What happened.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Quinn asked of Bartlock.

  “He’s a cop.”

  “I know he’s a cop.” Quinn tossed off his winter coat revealing a holstered gun and too many chest muscles, biceps bigger than my thighs. “He’s been to the house, asking all kinda questions he’s got no business asking, him off duty and all. I checked. He’s got a reputation in the state. And some of it’s not good.” Quinn flexed steroid-bulked muscles, drawing attention to his oversize chest and the leather holster strapped around it. “Now, what’s he doing here?”

  The cop smiled; I could feel it through the back of my head, and the smile was ugly. “Our aunt hired me to find David,” he said. “And since we’ve been checking into one another’s backgrounds, let’s discuss your little problem—your arrest for controlled substances. A small thing you didn’t disclose on my last visit.”

  Something clutched at my heart. “Quinn?”

  The bodyguard glowered and speared me with a stare. “David knows all about me. He didn’t tell you?”

  I shook my head.

  “We can talk about it later. Right now, I—”

  “We’ll talk about it now,” I said, taking refuge in a spurt of anger, my familiar companion when I was worried or frightened. The anger cleared away the last of my headache.

  Quinn looked at the cop and back at me, dark things crawling behind his eyes at being forced to speak in front of the other man. “We knew each other from the gym. David was working out the day the frigging cops showed up and I got arrested and fired. I was eighteen and stupid and thought I had the world by the tail. And the cops didn’t cut me any slack, which they coulda because of my age and no priors.”

  I knew enough about David’s missing years to understand why he had helped a young impressionable, mixed-up kid. Davie had once battled his own addiction, to high-stakes gambling. And with his gift, his ability to win at any game of chance, it hadn’t been easy. But that was a far cry from using drugs. “And the controlled substance?” I pressed.

  Quinn had the grace to look uncomfortable, the bluster and the macho pose wilting a bit. “I was dealing juice out of the back of my trunk to pay for my own use.”

  “What’s juice?” I questioned.

  “Steroids,” Evan said, censure in his tone.

  “I had dreams of being the next Schwarzenegger.” His voice claimed that dream had died hard. “David paid for my defense, got my record cleaned up, paid for my training and gave me a job.”

  That sounded like my brother. He braked for animals, even squirrels, rabbits and possums crossing the road. I’d seen him stop and help a turtle off the pavement and out of harm’s way. I had once accused Davie of putting the local vet on retainer to take care of injured and sick wildlife he found and rescued. He hadn’t denied the charge. Davie was a seriously nice man.

  “Now, what is that cop doing here?” Quinn asked, the bluster creeping back. “I get back in town to find David’s gone. Kidnapped. I don’t like a stranger hanging around while David’s in trouble and people are trying to get Jane. It’s weirding me out, man.”

  “Trying to get Jane?” The bottom dropped out of my world.

  “Yeah. Som
eone tried to take her out of school. Some guy. They caught him on the security camera at the front door, but he had his face turned away. The principal, Mrs. Godansky, told him to wait and called me and the cops but he bugged before we got there. Description I got could be anybody. And when I asked the cops about this guy—” Quinn nodded to Bartlock “—they tell me he’s not on the case officially. But he’s hanging around, conveniently at the same time my boss goes missing? Something ain’t right.”

  “Davie’s aunt Matilda hired him. He’s our cousin,” I said as Bartlock maneuvered closer, within range of my vision.

  Quinn relaxed marginally, scrutinizing the tall cop. “David trusts his aunt Matilda. Told me she’s okay people. But he never said anything about this guy. He ain’t on the list.”

  The list was exactly that, a short list Davie had given Quinn a long time ago, cataloging the people approved for access to his daughter. “We have hundreds of cousins we don’t know well. He’s okay.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have to like it. I got my eyes on you.”

  That seemed to amuse the cop. One corner of his lips quirked up, which made Quinn bristle. Men. Like a couple of junkyard dogs.

  “You were out of town when David was taken?” Bartlock asked, which I had somehow missed in the previous conversation. “You didn’t mention that to me, either. There seem to be fairly significant discrepancies in your stories.”

  “I was visiting my…mother,” he said with a quick glance at me. I could almost smell the lie and got a quick impression of white thighs and rumpled sheets. Quinn reddened and I hid a small smile.

  “I’ll need your mother’s name,” Bartlock said, emphasizing the word mother slightly. “And her address.”

  “I gave them to the cops. I got nothing to say to you.”

  Bartlock shrugged infinitesimally. “Fine. So who was watching Jane?”

  “A friend of mine. Part-time guy David hired last time I took vacation. The cops have that information, too.”

  I remembered the medium brown man from the rock-and-gem show. “Can I see the security photos?”