by Debra Webb
Just a little longer and she would drag herself back upstairs to bed for a couple more hours of sleep.
“Rowen.”
He whispered her name against her skin. She felt the goose bumps rise in reaction to his lips tasting that sensitive flesh near her earlobe.
“You are so beautiful.”
She trembled as his mouth trailed along the line of her jaw, the words vibrating softly.
Then he kissed her cheek. “Sleep well.”
Rowen wanted to whisper back, her body ached for him. But she was so tired. She couldn’t open her eyes…couldn’t move her head. She just wanted to sleep and keep dreaming about this delicious dark, alluring man who tempted her dreams far too often.
A LOW GROWL prodded Rowen, but she refused to open her eyes.
Not yet. Please, not yet.
The growl grew louder and something else…another sound…
Rowen knew she had to wake up, but the lure of sleep was just too sweet, too seductive.
Another rumbling growl.
“Ouch!”
Rowen’s eyes fluttered open.
What the hell? She jerked her hand upward. Rubbed her fingers together.
Princess yapped.
Rowen cleared the sleep from her eyes, only then realizing she’d conked out at her computer. Princess had tried to wake her by growling and nipping at her fingers. Rowen flexed her fingers and shook her arms to rid them of the prickly sensations. She’d slept with one dangling downward and the other under her head.
The telephone rang and she jumped, startled.
Her machine picked up and she realized then that the ringing phone had been the other sound that had dragged her from the depths of slumber deeper than any she’d had in weeks. It took four rings to turn on the machine.
Rowen scrubbed a hand over her face and reached for the receiver to catch the call.
Something stopped her midreach.
She stared down at herself.
The crocheted throw that usually draped the back of her sofa, the one tattered from use since it was her favorite, hung around her, except, of course, where she’d shaken her arms and caused it to slip down around the chair.
She looked at the couch, then back at the throw her grandmother had made decades ago.
How the hell?
Then she remembered the whispered words…the kiss. Her pulse tripped into a faster rhythm and her fingers went instantly to the spot.
She’d dreamed of him kissing her…whispering passionately to her.
Reason insisted that she had probably gotten up in the night and pulled the throw around her and she just didn’t remember doing it.
There had to be a logical explanation.
There always was. Or maybe she simply refused to acknowledge anything else.
The sound of her partner’s voice speaking into the answering machine suddenly cut through the worrisome thoughts.
“We’ve got another body, Ro. Meet me at…”
The rest registered vaguely, but Rowen had stopped listening after his first words.
They had another body.
Chapter Five
Rowen stood on the sidewalk outside the small coffee shop and bakery at the corner of Clarendon and Tremont streets. The morning was crisp and clear. Clean from the night’s steady rain. She surveyed the three-hundred-sixty-degree view of cozy cafés and eateries, bookstores and the Boston Center for the Arts Theatre. Chic shops accompanied by upscale luxury housing.
A far cry from the place where Carlotta Simpson had lost her life.
Rowen badged her way past the uniforms stationed at the bakery’s entrance. Inside, the sugary sweet scents of Danish and cinnamon rolls still permeated the air from yesterday’s baking. But the glass display cases sat empty, like jewel boxes that had been plundered by a thief. Fresh brewed coffee, its aroma rich and bold, underscored the appetizing smells, making Rowen’s stomach rumble. Once again, she’d left home without taking the time to have coffee.
That was becoming a bad habit.
The owner of the bakery, along with two female employees from the morning shift, huddled around a small table in the center of the shop. Merv and Lenny had already conducted initial interviews, so there was no real worry about collusion at this point. The employees, as well as their boss, looked shell-shocked. Walking in to find the evening shift manager dead on the bathroom floor was the last thing any of these three had expected to discover this morning.
Three forensic techs were doing what they did with their nifty gadgets—processing the scene as if it were a puzzle and trying to make the pieces fit. The entire shop would be considered a part of the crime scene. Photos would be taken from multiple angles. Prints would be lifted from every surface. All doors and windows would be checked for tool marks and other signs of forced entry. Hypotheses would be formed as to the method of entry, as well as the perp’s manner of overpowering the victim.
“Hey, Ro.”
Rowen moved toward the far side of the shop where her partner stood by the door marked Employees Only. He looked a little rumpled, but far more alert than she felt. God, that coffee smelled good, but it would have to wait. She had to get a handle on her middle-of-the-night wanderings that left her without enough sleep and too far away from bed to hear the alarm clock.
“Lenny’s talking to the neighboring businesses,” Merv said, bringing her up to speed.
Rowen nodded. “Where’s the body?”
Merv jerked his head toward the door next to him. “In here.”
He led the way into the kitchen. Flour was scattered about on the counters. A huge ball of forgotten dough sat rising amid the white dust. A mixer, its paddles caked with the same dough, sat nearby. Obviously preparations had gotten well underway for the day’s business before the body had been discovered.
“They found her in the bathroom about six this morning,” Merv told her as they neared the rear of the kitchen. A walk-in cooler, storage room and bathroom took up the remaining square footage of the building.
“The owner had no idea she hadn’t closed up and gone home as usual,” Merv went on. “The victim lives alone, so no one missed her last night.” Rowen’s partner hesitated at the door labeled Toilet. “When the owner arrived this morning the lights were out. Doors locked.” He shrugged. “He had no clue anything was amiss until Edna, the older of the two female employees, went to the bathroom.”
“Nothing missing? Her purse? Bank deposits?”
“Her purse’s still in the closet they use for coats and sweaters. Right where she left it. Yesterday’s entire take was still in the register. Apparently she never got around to tallying the till.”
Well, that sure as hell ruled out robbery. But then, Rowen hadn’t really expected anything different.
She slipped on shoe covers, then tugged on a pair of latex gloves. Her stomach immediately roiled in protest. “Same puncture wounds as the others?”
Merv nodded. “Looks like she’s been dead for most of the night. Rig’s already set in.”
Fury swept through Rowen, obliterating the nausea. They had to find this bastard. Or group of bastards. There could be more than one killer. A cult, maybe related to someone exactly like Viktor Azariel.
She forced away the anger, resurrected some semblance of her objectivity. She had to find a neutral place before looking at the body. Focus.
Rowen glanced at her watch. It was just after eight now; that would make her partner’s rudimentary assessment of time of death about right. The shop closed at seven on weeknights. With no one around to witness the gruesome act, the victim had likely met her demise shortly after that.
“Cost on his way?” Rowen was actually surprised the M.E. hadn’t beaten her here.
“Yep.”
“Didn’t find anything else?” She glanced around the near spotless kitchen, already knowing the answer but asking just the same. Other than the baking preparations, the place was immaculate. Neat, orderly, not a single can, bag, wooden spoon or whis
k out of place.
“Nope. Not yet.”
When she reached for the door, Merv made her hesitate. “This one…” He cleared his throat. “This one’s different, Ro.”
Apprehension inched up her back. Rowen searched her partner’s face for some indication of just how different he meant. “Different how?”
He blinked, but in that fraction of a second before his lids dropped over his eyes she saw the flash of horror in his gaze.
“I think you need to see for yourself.”
Bracing for the worst, and suddenly finding herself inexplicably breathless, Rowen took a much needed breath and opened the door to the bathroom.
Instantly the odor of coagulated blood assaulted her nostrils. She resisted the impulse to gag. The more appealing aroma of sugary baked goods, in conjunction with the exhaust fan, had effectively camouflaged the clawing scent of death until the door had been opened.
The room wasn’t very large, perhaps eight feet by eight feet. A white toilet with a scarred blue seat and a wallmounted porcelain washbowl were the only fixtures. A metal cabinet stood against one wall and likely housed supplies, toilet paper and the like. The floor was tiled in black-and-white squares, not the stone or ceramic kind, but the less expensive stick-on vinyl sort. The walls had been painted a clean white, but over time the color had aged to a faint yellow.
As soon as she’d allowed the details of the bigger picture to penetrate her senses, Rowen focused on the condition and position of the victim.
The air evacuated her lungs all over again.
“Her name’s Ellen Green. Twenty-five,” Merv said. “Single.”
Her partner was right. This one was way different. And now she understood why he’d waited for her to see this for herself before he offered details.
The pale white skin of Miss Green’s throat was marred by two small puncture wounds, just like the other victims. The major, glaring difference in her death was the blood. It appeared that every drop of the life-giving fluid, rather than being drained and carried from the scene, had been allowed to pool on the glossy black-and-white tiles beneath her body.
“Oh, God.” Rowen crouched down to make a closer inspection, being careful not to tread on or even near any of the evidence.
The victim’s face was frozen in that same death mask as the others, as if she’d glimpsed pure terror before dying. Her arms hung loosely, giving the impression that she’d simply sat down and welcomed her coming fate. Her legs were tucked modestly to one side. She wore her beige button-up uniform dress, name tag and pin designating her as part of management and the requisite slip-resistant shoes. Her hair was still restrained in traditional food-handler style.
Rowen wondered if the current employees would ever be able to walk into this room again and not see Ellen Green sitting on the floor in a crimson circle of her own blood. The stench would linger, no matter what the cleaning efforts, like a bad memory. The resonance of one final scream would reverberate each time anyone who had witnessed the results of this brutal act entered the small room and recalled the violence.
When Rowen had seen enough, she stepped back. Dr. Cost had arrived by then. This time, he’d brought along his assistant so Rowen stayed out of the way. Trying to crowd into the small room would exacerbate the risk of contaminating evidence.
“I could use some coffee,” Merv said abruptly, dragging Rowen’s attention back to him. “How ’bout you, Ro? You had any this morning?”
She exhaled a weary sigh. “I could use a cup.” Despite the way her stomach churned just now, she desperately needed the caffeine. This was going to be a long day.
And it was only going to get worse.
By the time she’d managed to force down the coffee, Cost had stepped from the bathroom and ordered the body taken away on a gurney. His assistant oversaw the body’s removal. But when the attendants were about to leave with the victim carefully enveloped in a trace sheet and body bag, Cost stopped their progress.
He motioned for Rowen to join him next to the gurney. “Take a look at this,” he murmured for her ears only. He unzipped the bag and pulled back the sheet far enough to reveal the victim’s upper torso. Using a freshly gloved hand, he parted her bloodstained dress where it buttoned over her chest. On her right breast was a small tattoo featuring a dogwood blossom.
Rowen’s heart stumbled. “Is it the same?”
He nodded to his assistant, who instantly produced a handheld magnifying glass. Rowen took the tool and peered at the tattoo and immediately distinguished the letters…the word.
Donor.
“Now,” Cost said quietly, “we have a connection between two of the victims besides the cause of death. All you have to do, Detective, is figure out what the hell it means.”
BY NOON, the M.E. had given the chief a verbal preliminary report on the latest victim. And considering the theories all the newspapers, as well as the local broadcast news media were tossing around, mostly revolving around the V word, the case got upgraded.
Rowen glanced around the Boston PD conference room. Chief Koppel had assigned an additional detective to their little task force, bringing the count to four. Along with her partner, Merv Gant, and fellow detective Lenny Doherty, was a newbie who’d just transferred over from Robbery, Jeff Finch. Finch had passed his detective’s exam just six months ago and was champing at the bit to sink his teeth into what he called a real case.
Rowen resisted the urge to say, Well, here’s your chance.
Unfortunately, the cops weren’t in the conference room alone.
“Detectives,” the chief announced, “this is Dr. Smith Forrester. He’s a criminal psychologist and the university was kind enough to lend him to us this morning. Dr. Forrester has reviewed the file and I’ve brought him up to speed on our latest discoveries.” As the chief said the last his gaze settled briefly on Rowen. “So, heads up, detectives. We need all the help we get here.”
Forrester wasn’t the shrink Homicide generally used, leading Rowen to believe this one was more specialized, but the chief didn’t bother explaining.
Since the rest of the detectives did not know about the dogwood blossom, the chief suggested Rowen fill everyone in. She didn’t miss the question in her partner’s eyes. She would have to make this right with him. In the years they had worked together, she had never once hidden anything from him.
In many respects Rowen and Merv were a pretty good fit. Though Merv was more than twenty years older and had been married for nearly as long as Rowen had been alive, he had the heart of a much younger man. He was the perfect partner. Never made a fuss and didn’t have an ego problem.
She hoped that wasn’t about to change with this morning’s meeting.
Nearly an hour later, the good doctor, who appeared to have tired of hearing himself talk generalities, finally got down to the nitty-gritty.
“I agree with your conclusion that you’re dealing with a cult of sorts,” he announced as if his permission had been essential.
Images of Viktor Azariel kept flashing in Rowen’s mind. She thought of last night’s dreams and shivered. That was definitely the first time she’d dreamed of a suspect, at least in that way.
“Clearly this is the work of more than one person. With the lack of resistance on the part of the victims, it’s most likely someone the victim knows.”
So far, so good. Considering Viktor Azariel’s connection to Carlotta Simpson, that made him a prime suspect. Rowen had already decided that before the doc had said as much.
“I don’t believe this act has any sexual undertones, nor do I feel the unknown subject is trying to prove self-worth or any other personal validation. These killings have been carried out at very precise times and locations. No witnesses, no evidence left behind. This alone takes very careful planning, as I am sure you all know.”
Rowen shifted in her seat, tried to pay attention to the speaker, but the passion in Viktor Azariel’s voice kept echoing in her ears. Carlotta Simpson had been one of his. If the
latest victim was also, as Rowen suspected, Azariel might turn vigilante.
There was always the possibility that this latest donor belonged to someone else…like Azariel. Rowen absolutely refused to use the V word. Maybe this one, Ellen Green, was a revenge kill. After all, there was that one significant difference. Wasting her blood seemed to be a challenge, a message of some sort. For whom? Azariel?
Forrester was saying, “Killers hunt in their comfort zone, ladies and gentlemen. All of them. They have their territory. I’m certain you’ve already triangulated the area, based on the discovery of the bodies. But we’ll need far more than that to catch this wily killer. Since we have nothing on the unknown subject, we should turn our focus to the victims.”
Rowen mentally reviewed the list of victims. Four women, one man. All young, healthy. Only two marked as donors.
“Who were these victims?” Forrester went on. “Why were they chosen? Most predators attack the weakest among society. That isn’t consistent with the victims in this case. One victim was a man, young, strong. The others were women, also young. All were educated, thriving individuals. Did they belong to a cult of any sort? What motivation did they have for giving in to death so easily? I believe this is your best avenue at this juncture.”
And then the good doctor said something that made complete and simple sense to Rowen.
“Dig deeper, detectives. No one dies for naught. There will be motivation. Look close enough and you will find it. As for method, I agree with your M.E. The blood was drained from the victim while he or she still breathed. Think about it.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “A pumping heart would make the process far easier.”
Rowen blinked, felt her skin tingle where she’d imagined that breath had whispered across it last night.
“Excuse me, Dr. Forrester,” Rowen interrupted whatever he’d intended to say next. “Why the wasted blood with this latest victim? If this is the work of a cult, it seems the blood would have been gathered for some purpose. Ritual sacrifice, self-healing. Whatever. Why go to the trouble to kill someone and then leave the bounty on the floor?” She needed to know if his conclusions would be the same as hers.