Her gaze ran over the flowing script. It almost looked like calligraphy, but in no language she’d ever seen. The images were more crudely made—jagged, without the flowing curves of the script. Almost as if they were from two different languages.
“What happens now?” she asked Zach.
“My team and I will collect any evidence and send the bodies to the morgue.”
“So, there will be an autopsy?”
He shook his head. “Not likely. Mostly we’ll bring in a witch to check out how the bodies fit into the spell if they can. Then they’ll go to the crematorium.”
Kayla had to bite her tongue to keep from saying what she thought of the lack of care for the people who’d died. And they were people. Maybe not human, but definitely people. They could think and love and mourn and desire. Believing otherwise was wrong. Hateful.
Would she be so sure of that if she wasn’t one of the hated? She hoped so. But then her conscience pricked. She was one of the hated, and she wasn’t going to let these three victims get swept under the rug just because they might have weird blood or two shapes or look like an animal. Not when she could do something about it. At least she could track down their families and let them know what had happened.
Zach seemed to forget about her as he summoned his techs and gave them orders. In the meantime, Kayla surreptitiously fished her phone out of her pocket and snapped pictures of the bodies and the writing, hoping she’d be able to see the details later.
“I’d better get out of your way,” she said as Zach’s techs scurried off.
He cocked his head. “In a hurry?”
“I still have to drop off my salvage.”
“I may need more information.”
Uh huh. He was back to flirting with her, and Kayla had to admit it felt nice. She hadn’t been exactly swimming in male attention since leaving the force. Not that she worked to get it. She looked homeless, and she hadn’t shaved her legs or pits since she didn’t know how long.
“So, you just expect me to sit around for hours until you get done?”
He gave a little shrug. “If afterward you let me take you to dinner, then I most definitely do want you to wait.”
Kayla folded her arms. “And why would I want to sit around bored out of my gourd for hours just to spend time with you?”
“My scintillating company, of course.”
She snorted. “That’s all you’ve got to offer?”
“You wound me.”
“I doubt it. Anyway, I still have to take care of my salvage.”
“It can wait, can’t it? You won’t regret coming out with me.”
She couldn’t help her smile. “You certainly have a high opinion of yourself.”
“What can I say? I’m the whole package: looks, brains, talent, and personality. And a sense of humor. You’re going to love me.”
Kayla bit her lips to keep from laughing out loud. “I regret to inform you that I’m a hard-hearted bitch, and I’m pretty sure I’m incapable of love except for good coffee, death-by-chocolate cake, and dark ale. I’ve been told”—by her family, by Ray—“that I cannot be trusted, and if you stupidly choose to do so, I will stab you in the back.”
He gave her a long look, his eyes narrowing as he considered her. Kayla had a feeling her words had revealed more about her feelings than she’d wanted. Hurt. Bitterness. Anger. Things she kept locked up behind titanium bars and steel doors. Apparently, those safeguards were not enough to keep those emotions contained. Not after today anyway.
“I’m willing to take my chances,” Zach said softly, almost like he thought she was fragile and could break apart at any second.
As if. She’d been through the grinders of hell, and she hadn’t broken yet. And that was all before she’d joined the police department. She wasn’t about to break down now over a little emotional turmoil.
“Your willingness to take risks is duly noted. I, however, am risk averse.”
“If you were, you would never had checked out the crime scene. Plus, you were a cop. There’s no such thing as a cop who doesn’t like risks.”
She’d have liked to argue, but he was right. Dammit.
He caught her hand, his grip warm and firm. “It’s just dinner.” He gave her puppy eyes, which made it impossible to refuse. Plus, the promise of food and fun company was hard to pass up. She didn’t have many friends, or any friends, and she didn’t feel like being alone. Then she’d have to think about Ray and the past. Putting that off seemed like a fine idea.
“Okay,” she said with a sigh. “But you’d better go fast. I’m not good at waiting.”
He grinned broadly. “We’ll be quick,” he promised. “In the meantime, you can park yourself in the van until we’re done. It’ll be more comfortable.” He bent a little closer. “I promise the wait will be worth your while.” His smile was wicked and far too sure of himself.
It was Kayla’s turn to roll her eyes at his outrageousness, but even so, she couldn’t suppress her smile. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually gone out with anyone. Or the last time she’d even wanted to.
Maybe it was time to get her shit together and get back out there.
And maybe she was about to commit enormous stupidity. She sighed. Only time would tell, and like the man said, she liked risk. She just hoped she didn’t come to regret it.
Chapter 6
Ray
RAY ARRIVED AT THE Runyon estate in just under twenty-five minutes. It stood on the crown of a broad hill west of the river. A brick wall topped with vicious spikes surrounded the place with a broad iron gate guarded by two men in black suits carrying military-grade automatic rifles.
He stopped to show his credentials. One of the beefy guards examined it carefully before turning away to speak into a microphone in the sleeve of his jacket. The other guard just watched grim-faced, finger on his trigger, his gun pointed at a polite angle just to the side of Ray. If the idiot sneezed and jerked his finger, at least Ray wouldn’t get cut in half. He hoped.
“Go on in,” the first guard said as the seam between the two gates split and they slid apart. “Follow the road up to the main house.”
Ray nodded and rolled inside. A borealis of red, blue, and white flickering lights rose above the treetops ahead. He followed the zigzagging road up the hill until it flattened out into a long straight drive. The house looked like a modern version of an old French chateau, complete with gray stone walls and a slate tile roof. The façade was lit up like a Vegas casino, with a dozen cop cars parked out front, along with three CSU vans, a hazmat team, five firetrucks, and two ambulances.
Ray drove slowly, passing between two swathes of manicured lawns pocked with decorative garden plots broken by an artfully aged tumbling stone wall covered in moss. The drive appeared to be the main route in, though Ray expected there was a service entrance in the back somewhere. He’d have to determine what the security protocols were for the back.
The tree line stopped at the crown of the hill, leaving precious few places for a kidnapper to hide his approach or escape. So, whoever had taken the women had either used some sort of spell to make himself invisible, or he’d had help. More than one perp would make this an even harder task. Taking two women out of a fortress without getting caught wasn’t easy. It would have been almost impossible for a single person.
Unless they used magic.
He parked his cruiser and stepped out of the car, his gaze sweeping the grounds. From here, the Runyons had a clear view of what was left of Mt. Hood after the eruption of magic from its cone. To the south he could see Lake Oswego, which now was miles bigger than it had been and could technically be called a wide spot in the Willamette River since the river flowed directly into it on one side and out on the other. Beyond, he could see Glass Mountain, shimmering brightly despit
e the overcast sky. To the west were the singing spires, a forest of faceted crystals that rose high into the sky and sounded like all the ghosts crying in hell when the wind blew.
“Garza! About time you got here.” Crice came striding across the broad circular plaza in front of the house.
Ray didn’t bother to tell the captain he’d made it to the scene in well under the half-hour time limit he’d been given. He could have arrived instantly and Crice would still have been pissed.
Ray glanced back as several other pairs of headlights crested the hill and came barreling up the drive. None of them were cops or emergency vehicles.
“Christ.” Crice groaned. “More damned people to trample the crime scene.” He fished in his coat pocket and drew out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, drawing deeply and blowing out the smoke on a heavy sigh.
“It’s not been kept clear?” Ray couldn’t hide his surprise.
“There’s been an army trooping in and out of the house all night. Any evidence we might have found outside was compromised before we were ever called to the scene. You don’t tell Alistair Runyon what to do and keep your job.”
Crice gave Ray a hard look. “Garza, I want this solved and fast. You’re lead, and the department’s entire resources are yours. Whatever you need, you get this done and fast. Find those women and get them home, or the best you’ll be able to hope for is scraping for food in the gutters. Alistair Runyon will turn you into a pariah. He’ll make your life a living hell.”
The captain’s mouth twisted. “And you’ll be better off than I will be. So get to work and I want updates every two hours.”
Ray’s brows went up. Crice gave a rough bark of laughter that sounded more like gravel in a blender.
“Every two hours. Don’t worry about waking me up. I’m not going to sleep until this over. Now get your ass inside.”
Ray normally liked the chance to get a wide look at a crime scene, gradually telescoping his focus to the exact location of the event. Not tonight. He didn’t have the luxury of time, and even if he did, the place was in an uproar. Too damned many people.
He threaded between the cars and ducked under the yellow-and-black crime-scene tape cutting across the front walk. He flashed his badge at the uniform guarding the taped-off area and proceeded up the fan of shallow, white stone steps spreading across three quarters of the imposing front. The house stood four stories tall, with the front steps taking him up to the imposing entrance on the second floor.
On the left, a pair of open French doors led inside. Within, he could hear raised voices. He paused to listen.
“I swear to God, if you don’t call her, I will go find her myself!” The male voice was young. Probably late teens, early twenties.
“Don’t think to push me, Landon. I’m in no mood for your stupidity. I will handle this. You keep your mouth shut. Do you understand?”
“I understand all right. You’d rather keep your secrets than get mother and grandmother back.”
“Watch your mouth, boy. I make allowances for your fears, but remember your place.”
Ray could hear the threat dripping from the man’s stony voice. That was Alistair Runyon. The other must be a nephew, son of the missing Margaret Valentine, Runyon’s sister. Ray wondered what secrets the man was keeping that would help find his mother and sister. And who was the she the kid wanted his uncle to call? Ray’d have to question the nephew without Runyon present.
“Sir?”
The voices in the house went silent, and then the glass doors closed with a firm thunk. Ray kept the irritation from his expression as he glanced at the uniformed officer who waited for him and quickly checked her brass name bar: “L. Gilisi.”
“Detective Frasier said he’s ready to update you.”
Ray glanced once more at the glass doors before following Gilisi into the house. He stopped outside to don gloves and pull booties over his shoes, though from what the captain had said, too many people had tromped through already for it to matter what he tracked in.
Once inside the spacious entry hall, he ran into a hushed crowd. Quickly, he cataloged them. Several servants wept and comforted one another. A half-dozen burly bodyguards stood by the walls looking vigilant and angry. They kept their hands close to their weapons as they watched the gathered people. Thirteen civilians confronted three uniforms who stood on the bottom step of the massive staircase, jackhammering them with questions and not giving them time to answer. Not that they’d have said anything. They knew better.
Techs dressed in blue coveralls bustled back and forth carrying bulky cases containing tools for collecting evidence, along with sacks full of evidence they’d already collected.
Tim Frasier, a short, wiry detective who’d been in the job for less than two years, approached. “Ray, good to see you.”
“What have we got?”
Tim motioned for Ray to follow him down a hallway where they couldn’t be overheard.
“Some time last night, Theresa Runyon, age sixty-seven, and her daughter Margaret Valentine, age forty-one, disappeared. Notification came in at—” he checked his watch “—at two thirty-eight. Witnesses say the women went to bed shortly after ten o’clock and weren’t seen again. No signs of breaking and entering, or a struggle. They just vanished.”
Frasier looked at Ray. “The kidnappers had to have a key, or someone let them in, or they used magic. CSU is doing their thing, but—”
“But?”
Frasier shook his head, frowning. “It doesn’t add up.”
Ray snorted inwardly. Tell me something I didn’t know. He was interested in the other man’s thinking, though. Frasier didn’t have a lot of experience, but he had good instincts. “What doesn’t add up?”
“Their rooms are too clean, for one. The beds don’t look like they’ve been slept in. There’s no sign of dirty clothes, nothing out of place. Practically sterile.”
“What do the maids say? Did they clean?”
“They say no.”
“You don’t believe them.”
Frasier shook his head and shrugged. “If they didn’t clean, then those rooms are just for show and the women live elsewhere.”
“What else?” Ray asked.
“Everybody is real careful about what they say, and too many stories are too pat, too identical. They’ve been coached.”
“Do you like someone for the kidnapping?”
Frasier grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t know. It seems like there had to be someone inside. That or the kidnappers used magic, but I’d bet my teeth this place is warded against magical incursion. One thing I do know is that nobody is telling us the whole truth.”
Ray nodded, unsurprised. He’d expected as much, especially after overhearing the conversation between Runyon and his nephew. “Anything else?”
“Seems like Theresa Runyon held a lot of the purse strings. That gives Alistair Runyon a motive. She wasn’t a particularly nice woman, and I get the impression she ruled the roost with an iron fist. He and his sister are the only heirs. They don’t come back, he gets it all. So long as they’re out of the way, he’s in charge.”
“But he has an unimpeachable alibi,” Ray guessed.
“He says he had a playdate with a couple of lady friends. Got home around dawn. He noticed his mother and sister missing when they didn’t show up for breakfast—I guess the old lady is a stickler for everybody attending meals. When he realized they weren’t home and hadn’t taken a car or a chauffeur, he had his secretary reach out in case they’d gone shopping or visiting friends, but no go. It’s unheard of for either of them to disappear without a word, so he decided he’d better call us in.”
“You don’t believe him.”
“He’s definitely holding something back.”
“Everybody lies to the cops,” Ray m
uttered. “All right, let me know when the techs are done with the scene. I’m going to talk to Runyon. Did you get the names and contact information for his companions last night?”
Frasier shook his head with a wry smile. “Above my pay grade to ask him a question like that. I like my job.”
In his place, Ray wouldn’t have asked either. The Runyons had the money and power to do just about anything they wanted, and few would try to get in their way. Word was Alistair was a vindictive son of a bitch, too.
“After I’m done with Runyon, I want to talk to the nephew and the staff. Set up an interview room for me.”
“On it.”
Frasier hurried away, and Ray headed for his collision with Runyon.
“Oh, one more thing,” Frasier said, stopping.
“What’s that?”
“Runyon’s got his attorneys with him. All three of them.” He grinned and walked away again.
Ray swore. Lawyers were boils on the ass of the universe.
Chapter 7
Ray
AFTER ASKING A maid to take him to Runyon, Ray found himself facing off against a pair of polished walnut doors with square inset panels. He knocked and let himself in.
He scanned the room, quickly taking in the people and the furniture. An ornate desk sat on the right side of the room with bookcases behind. Two barrel chairs sat facing it. Behind sat a couch and several easy chairs, all arranged around a massive wet bar. A TV hung beside it. Three older men sat drinking from rock glasses, while another poured a new one. A fifth man—more a boy—paced in front of the now-closed glass French doors. He froze in place when he saw Ray, his hands clenching and unclenching with angry energy. Ray pegged him as Landon Valentine.
“Alistair Runyon? I’m Detective Garza. I’d like to speak with you about your mother and sister.”
The man in question sat with his legs crossed, one arm on the couch, the other swirling his drink. He eyed Ray with sharp dislike, his mouth thinning.
The Witchkin Murders Page 6