by Jordan Dane
"You're fishing, Detective, and without a license. I came here in the spirit of cooperation. You and your partner in there have turned this into an interrogation." Without a glance over his shoulder, he rapped on the mirror twice, a signal for Tony to quit playing games. "Am I a suspect?"
Before she answered, the door opened, with her partner holding a cup of coffee. "Took a little longer than I figured. Sorry."
Raven commended Tony's effort, but by the look on Delacorte's face, he wasn't buying any of it. Ignoring her partner's poor acting, the Dunhill Security man offered more.
"I was at the cemetery that night. But I think you know that. And I'm not in the mood to share anything more on the subject. So if you're gonna book me, then let's do it. I'd like time to call my attorney so I can make it out by dinnertime. Otherwise, I'm out of here."
His jaw clenched, and the look in his eyes dropped the temperature in the room. Christian pushed by her, but stopped when she placed her hand on his chest and raised her voice.
"Hold it."
She tried pushing him back to a comfortable distance, but he wouldn't budge. The man's chest felt as solid as a brick wall. And he wielded his gaze like a weapon. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand.
"Okay then. You like cards on the table, let's do it."
She persisted as her blood churned. "What do you think about the message on the body? I didn't figure Mickey for a religious fanatic, not after seeing his criminal record. So my next leap was to assume the message had been intended for someone. And lo and behold, we meet you, Christian. Now that's what I call too much coincidence. Seek the truth, Christian. What does it mean?"
"I have no idea," he replied. "But I think you'll have to agree, it's not likely I'd kill the man, then sign my own work, directing the police to my door." He remained calm, staring at her and completely ignoring her partner. "Am I free to go?"
Closing her eyes, she filled her lungs, then let out a breath. Calm down, Mackenzie. He was right, of course. Still, she needed to make another point.
"We've granted you some privileges with regard to this investigation, in exchange for the complete cooperation of your employer. We could have subpoenaed the information we needed and left you out in the cold, yet we extended Mrs. Dunhill a special courtesy. Cooperation is a two-way street, Delacorte. I get the distinct impression you're holding out on me."
Raven knew she was posturing, having no intention of allowing him into the investigation completely. But what he didn't know would be no skin off her nose.
His eyes narrowed. She felt him harness his emotion, his hostility given away only by the slight stiffening of his jaw. In a move she hadn't anticipated, he stepped toward her, closing a gap already too awkward. Instinctively, she sucked in a breath and held it, filling her senses with the subtle cologne that tempered his act of intimidation.
"The police will get all the cooperation deserved, Detective." His voice low, he embellished his message. "I'll make sure of it."
Raven heard his underlying meaning clearly. A line had been drawn in the sand of mutual cooperation. Christian Delacorte had no intention of cooperating. She saw it in those captivating eyes. He'd conduct his own investigation, sharing only meaningless information under the guise of collaboration. He'd race ahead, outpacing her and Tony. And with the resources of Dunhill behind him, it would be an uphill battle to fight him.
Before she admitted defeat, her partner relieved the tension in the cramped room. "But don't you want your coffee? I brewed it myself." Tony held it out to Christian. "The city's finest."
"That's what I'm afraid of." Green eyes glared at Tony. "Some other time." Turning his attention back to her, he added, "Eight sharp, tomorrow. Coffee will be on me."
After Delacorte left, Tony closed the door, lowering his voice. "That's one cool hombre. If he's our guy, it's gonna be tough to nail him. But I admire your grit, girl."
"I don't know, Tony. I don't like him for this. He's not our guy. But my gut tells me he knows something. It's in his eyes."
"Yeah, maybe. And off the record, you may not like him for the murder, but you like him fine otherwise." He grinned.
"What the hell are you talking about? He's a suspect in a murder investigation. I'd have to be pretty hard up to—"
Seeing his insufferable enjoyment, Raven stopped her flimsy justification and thumped him on the shoulder with a finger.
"Next you'll accuse me of cruising the mug books."
"Hey, not a bad idea. For my sister-in-law, that'd be a step up." He chuckled. "Protest all you want, Mackenzie, but a partner knows such things. You just got this soft feminine thing going on, in between all the chest butting and bullying you tried on him. Personally, I found it charming. Would've worked on me, if I was single and into women with handcuffs."
Walking out the door at her heels, he poked fun at himself—a full-time job. "Now I'm just an old married guy into women with handcuffs. There's a big difference."
Damn it! Her partner was a perceptive son of a gun. An endearing yet lethal quality when directed her way.
"Yeah, well, enough of that. Come on. We've got a medical examiner waiting."
Something had indeed just happened between her and Delacorte. And she hadn't been prepared for it. Next time, she would be.
Christian's mind reeled as he rode down the elevator. It'd taken all his discipline to keep his reaction to a minimum. Who the hell had killed Blair, leaving a clear message to him?
Seek the truth about what?
Fiona had kept something from him. He felt it as sure as his heart beat in his chest. But he knew the woman. It wouldn't be easy to persuade his surrogate mother to reveal her secret.
And the point Detective Mackenzie had made about Blair's expensive taste hit home, too. He wondered about it himself, having special insight into the man's earnings as his boss. Walking out the front door of the police station, he welcomed the chill. The cold kept him on edge and sharp.
Heading for the parking garage, he made a decision. He would confront Fiona, throwing himself on her mercy. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, he felt certain she had no idea of the personal message directed at him, pinned to Blair's corpse.
Fiona had asked for his help in serving as the Dunhill liaison with the police, to be her eyes and ears in the investigation. He owed Fiona so much more than his loyalty. Perhaps it would make a difference if she knew he was nearly accused of the crime himself. That dark-haired detective with the fierce eyes looked like she'd rather lock him up and throw away the key.
One thing was certain. He'd conduct his own investigation. And he wasn't about to share anything with the damned police.
The naked body of Mickey Blair lay on a gurney pulled up to a sink, a sheet covering the lower extremity of the torso. No matter how many times Raven had observed an autopsy, she never got used to it. Medicinal odors mixed with the smell of death—a tang that triggered her worst memories. Long ago, she'd forced herself to get over the feeling that each victim's privacy had been invaded. Hell, in Blair's case, being sliced across the throat was the ultimate invasion.
Suited in surgical gowns, gloves, and masks with shields attached, Chief Medical Examiner Lucy Chapman and CSI Scott Farrell huddled over the corpse. A lab tech reviewed paperwork on a clipboard and labeled test tubes.
With a surgical gown draped loosely over her street clothes, Raven accompanied Tony into the room, slipping on latex gloves. Tony's voice echoed in the chamber. "We got a meeting with the chief in a half hour. Just wanted to see what you got so far. I know you've barely started."
"Actually, we found something interesting. It's not much, but it might give you a lead." Dr. Chapman spoke in monotone, with the composure of a CPA poring over a tedious tax return.
Raven admired her professionalism. Without any apparent emotion, the woman stood over Mickey with his gaping throat and shocked expression fixed at the time of his death. But under this light, Raven found it hard to dismiss the man's terror.
"W
hen we removed his clothing, we found that pellet," the doctor explained. She pointed to a small plastic capsule bagged on a nearby counter. Raven bent to get a closer look at the evidence.
The medical examiner continued, "You'll need to confirm my suspicions, but one of my techs was familiar with that type of pellet. He says he's seen it used for paintball. Are you familiar with the game?"
Raven's stomach lurched. She knew what Tony would be thinking. She'd been trained to remain objective during an investigation, yet she found herself blinded to Delacorte's possible involvement. Blame it on her cop gut instinct—or had Christian tainted that, too? Damn it! With her eyes focused on the body, she fought to keep the emotion from her face.
"Yeah, just saw it played as a matter of fact." Her tone steady, she stepped back to the table, catching the eye of her partner. "But why wasn't the man plastered with paint? Wouldn't it have been on his clothes?"
"Good question, Detective. You're right, but not if the pellet had been filled with rubbing alcohol. It seems paintball pellets can be purchased separately. Filled by the buyer." The CSI man offered his opinion. "With rubbing alcohol, the sting of the pellet would be multiplied as it pummeled the body. It would explain the bruising."
Pointing to the man's temple and neck, Scott added, "He's got dark abrasions here from direct hits. See the breaks in the skin. His chest has only faint markings of impact, maybe lessened by his clothing. Still, it would have stung like hell, to be blasted with something like that. One of the pellets dropped into his shirt. We were lucky to find it."
"So we're looking for a sick bastard with a twisted game of paintball." Tony glanced at Raven with a grimace that spoke volumes. She knew Christian would be back at the top of her partner's suspect list. "Anything else?" he asked.
"Yeah. We've had a couple of other cases under a similar MO. Two homeless guys. Maybe a practice run using people that wouldn't be missed? The MO is too unique not to be connected. It's a theory." Scott offered his opinion with a clinical shrug. "And as you remember, his tie and coat were missing. Didn't find his tie stuck in a pocket, so those items are still gone. And buttons were torn from his shirt. You might get lucky and find them at the murder scene, if you find it."
"You still think he was killed elsewhere?" Tony confirmed.
"Given the blood evidence, I'd say yes. He was killed somewhere else." Scott pointed to the vic's pants. "And we found small flecks of some kind on his pant legs and hands. We've sent samples to trace, but it'll take time to process. You'll have to check back with me in a day or two. The lab's backed up."
"Speaking of his hands, anything on them or under his nails?" Raven asked.
"We scraped under his nails, no apparent DNA evidence. But we did find GSR on his hands. Looks like the guy tried to defend himself. With an empty holster, you'll be looking for a gun, too."
"We've got a check going for his permit to carry. Once we get that, we'll start the search for his missing weapon," Tony replied. "Anything on the wound? Time of death?" He glanced at the ME.
"From the angle of the cut, left to right, you'll be looking for a right-handed person. Not much help there. The slice was clean, no serrated edge to the blade. An incised wound transecting the left and right common carotid artery as well as both jugular veins, causing a fatal hemorrhage." The ME pointed a gloved hand to Blair's throat. "And as for time of death, the chill in the church distorted the time line, but my estimate would put TOD at approximately two hours prior to when the body was discovered and called in to nine-one-one. The absence of rigor at the church gave us that. I'll let you know if I change my estimate after the autopsy."
"I'll let you know what we find," Scott replied. "Oh, and as for the trace evidence on his clothes and hands, I'll get the analysis bumped up. Put a rush on it."
"You giving us special treatment?" Tony teased, his dark eyes crimped with humor, putting Raven more at ease.
"Not for you, you ugly SOB. This one's for Mackenzie. I mean, it's not like I've never heard the word 'rush' before."
Tony grinned. "Well, thanks for the enlightenment. Call me when you have a report. I'll pick it up." Her partner stepped away from the gurney, tugging at his surgical gown.
Raven followed, yanking at her latex gloves. Catching a look from her partner, she asked, "What? Spit it out."
"I think I'm getting an allergy toward coincidences, Raven. And right now, I got hives in every nook and cranny of my body."
"That's an image I didn't need," she replied. "You talking about the paintball thing?" After he nodded, she heaved a sigh. "Yeah, I know. All my training tells me I should like him for this, but my gut says this is all wrong."
"Are you sure it's your gut?" He stopped and turned toward her. "Maybe your libido is doing all the talking." When she glared at him and opened her mouth to speak, he interrupted her. "Look, Mac, you're a good cop. I trust you with my life, but the coincidences are adding up. We gotta look hard at this guy. Can you do that?"
Without hesitation, she answered, "Yes, I can. I've built my life on the law, Tony. It was a gift from my father, the only thing that grounded me after his death. Central Station is my family, for crying out loud." Fixing her gaze on him, she added, "But I gotta trust my instincts on this and speak my mind to my partner. Can you accept that?"
He searched her eyes for a long moment, then his expression softened. "Yeah, I can do that. I just had to check. Come on. The chief is waiting. And we gotta make nice for the media. Glad I wore my best clip-on tie."
"You mean you've got more than one?" Raven followed Tony, but her mind dwelled on her reaction to Christian as a man. How could she explain something she didn't understand herself? And her partner had been right on another count. She had to keep her mind focused on the objective. If Delacorte was the killer, she wouldn't have the luxury to ponder her feelings. Tony might press for his arrest, and she'd have no choice but to do her job.
As Christian entered the Dunhill mansion through the kitchen, he found it spotless, without the normal activity. Fiona dined at this hour and usually invited him to join her. But they hadn't made such arrangements today with his late drive into town. The lights were dimmed. Peering around the stainless pots and pans hanging over the large butcher-block table, he spied the gas stove glistening in the pale light, cold as the room in which he stood.
A white envelope lay atop the butcher-block table, his name penned with Fiona's elegant script. Without opening the note, he knew what would be inside—the emptiness of the manor closed in on him, telling him all he needed to know.
He picked up the stationery and walked toward the night light, placing the page on the counter. As he suspected, Fiona had left for Paris, a sudden meeting with associates. He knew from experience that whenever she used the word "associates," she meant the side of the business she'd always kept hidden—to protect him. When he was younger, he'd hated the fact that she guarded her secrets. Now he understood her intentions, and loved her all the more for it.
Absentmindedly, he wandered through the darkened house toward her master suite upstairs. He flipped the light switch. Treading by her elaborately carved four-poster bed into the vast dressing area encircled by mirrors, he noticed her luggage gone. His heart sank.
She'd taken all of it. Fiona planned to be gone a long time.
"Damn it, Fie!" he cursed under his breath.
His voice sounded foreign even to his own ear. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved his cell phone and pressed the direct dial he knew well. Maybe if he told her what he'd found out, she'd come home to help him make sense of it. But as Fiona's phone rang, a faint noise echoed in the master bedroom. His shoulder slumped. The sound came from atop her dresser.
Fiona had left her cell phone, severing another link between them. Set near the phone, another note had been placed on her bureau, meant for his eyes alone.
My Darling—
It pains me to leave you this way. I trust you completely, but the police are another matter. My phone would be a b
eacon for them to locate me. I hope you understand.
Be assured, this is not permanent. I need time to clear my head and figure out what to do. Until then, I have key Dunhill personnel assigned to take care of my business affairs, legitimate and otherwise.
I will find you when it is safe. Know that I love you with all my heart, but my freedom and my life are at stake. My greatest wish is to see you happily married with children. I will not let my past sins tear apart my hopes for you, dearest.
All my love—
F
"What are you hiding?" he whispered.
She was protecting him from her own past. His heart wouldn't allow him to believe anything else. She probably didn't know the police were directing their investigation his way. For now, he'd keep that tidbit from her. She had enough on her mind if she was desperate enough to flee the country without him. Christian ripped the note in half, slipping it into his pocket to be burned downstairs. Fiona's note wouldn't become evidence against her.
Hitting another speed dial, he rang the hangar for the Dunhill jet. On the third ring, a man answered. "Dunhill hangar. Cooper here," the voice burdened with the boredom of night shift.
"Hey Coop. This is Christian. Just checking to see if Fiona got off okay."
"Yeah, before my shift." The man's voice was touched with concern. "Anything wrong?"
"No, everything's okay. Just checking on her flight plan." His effort at nonchalance made the call sound strained.
"Let me get it for you. Hold on a sec." The silence dragged on, an eternity. If he knew where she was, he might be able to—
"Well, this is strange." Papers rustled in the background. Christian resisted the urge to ask what the man meant by strange. He already knew.
Cooper finally spoke. "The only flight plan is to Lanchester, a small private airstrip outside London. Looks like they touched down to refuel, then took off again, about an hour ago. No plan listed after that. Do you want me to make contact with the jet?"