Carnal Sin sds-2

by Allison Brennan

  A ghost of Julie’s image on the YouTube video of Nadine’s death seemed impossible, but right now Grant could almost believe she’d been there. Right now, all he knew was that something was wrong with him.

  He flashed his badge to the guard at the morgue parking lot and called Moira O’Donnell.

  “Hello, Detective, miss me?” she asked, exaggerating her Irish accent.

  “Meet me at your hotel.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have questions.”

  “Okay, when?”

  He looked at his dashboard clock. It was nearing the lunch hour. He had the morgue, then needed time to cross town and find food somewhere, though the thought of eating made him ill. “Two o’clock. Your room.”

  “We checked out-”

  “I told you not to leave town!”

  “It was a little pricey for me. We’ll meet you in the Palomar lobby.”

  “Fine.”

  “What’s going on-”

  He hung up. Her voice was so damn unique, so seductive with that Irish lilt, his penis began to throb painfully and he reached down to adjust it. Grant had the overwhelming urge to jerk off. He was so hard that he was afraid someone would see, or that he’d have some sort of waking wet dream.

  “This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself as he got out of his car and walked in through the employee entrance, flashing his badge to the receptionist. He found the bathroom; there was no lock on the main door. Fortunately, no one was inside. He went into the stall, slid the lock in place, and pulled down his pants. His penis was large, red, and painful to the touch. Damn, this couldn’t be natural. Something was wrong.

  What could he tell his doctor? That he had a perpetual hard-on all day? Maybe someone at the station spiked his coffee with Viagra or something. Some sick joke because he’d stepped on some asshole’s overly sensitive ego. Not Johnston-but there were a couple of cops who didn’t like Grant. He wanted to believe it was a prank, but he knew it wasn’t. More likely he’d been drugged at Velocity last night, and his rock-hard cock was a side effect.

  He couldn’t live like this. He reached down and, embarrassed and angry and in pain, he jerked off. He pictured Julie last night and the things that he’d done to her, and he felt ashamed. He’d never been that callous before, that unconcerned about pleasing her. He closed his eyes and pictured himself fucking her, over and over, and then Moira O’Donnell’s face replaced Julie’s and Grant moaned, then bit his tongue so hard his mouth filled with blood as he spurted semen into the toilet.

  He stood there, head down, flushed, ashamed at what he’d pictured, what he’d done, and what he wanted to do. He spat into the toilet, a bright red wad of saliva.

  Still feeling ill, Grant washed his hands and face with icy water, then went to the main morgue level and asked the desk to page Fern Archer.

  While he waited for Fern, he called Julie on her cell phone. No answer. He hoped she wasn’t angry with him about last night. She had every right to be. He wanted to make it up to her, but didn’t know how-or if he could. Fool. She’s the one who most likely drugged you. Have Johnston pick her up for questioning.

  How could he do that to Julie?

  How could he not? He was a cop first.

  He called Jeff. “Hey, Johnston, I need you to track down Julie. I have some questions for her.”

  “About what?”

  He couldn’t very well tell Jeff the truth because he didn’t know what the truth was, and his theories were insane. Sure, tell his partner that he’d been drugged and assaulted last night. That he practically raped his girlfriend. That he was so sick he jerked off in the bathroom and was still hard and uncomfortable.

  “Don’t tell her why, just find out where she’ll be this afternoon. Tell her we need to ask her some follow-up questions.”

  “What are you thinking, Grant? I’m your partner-tell me what’s going on.”

  Fern walked into the lobby. Grant used her as an excuse. “I’m at the morgue; I can’t talk now. It’s about Nadine and drugs,” he added to get his partner off his back.

  “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Grant hung up. “Hello, Fern.”

  She smiled, her nose ring of yesterday now an emerald green stud. “Hey, Detective, what can I do for you?”

  He glanced at the receptionist and said, “I wanted to ask you some questions about the woman who was brought in yesterday, as well as Erickson. And I need an older autopsy report.”

  “Sure.” She hesitated. “I could have faxed you a report. You didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

  “I wanted to take another look at the marks on the bodies.”

  “Whatever floats your boat. Right this way.” Fern handed him disposable cloth booties for his shoes and he slipped them on. “We finished the suicide yesterday.”

  “She was a suspect in the death of George Erickson.”

  “Yeah, I saw the video on YouTube.”

  “Shit, who hasn’t seen it?”

  “No one in L.A., that’s for sure. It’s rare that you get such a fabulous, public confession.”

  “What did the autopsy reveal?”

  “She died from massive internal bleeding-a no-brainer since a bus ran over her. She didn’t live through it, which I suppose is lucky for her. She obviously was suffering enough before she went over the edge. Her ribs were crushed. A mess, really.”

  Grant didn’t need to know the details. “Blood tests?”

  “Not back yet. We ran a few in-house-no alcohol in her system-but the biggies won’t be back until the end of next week. We’ve been sending more than our usual number of blood tests to the lab, and they’ve been complaining, damn lab bureaucrats.” She shook her head. “We have a pool going here among the pathologists. PCP is leading, though without the alcohol chaser I don’t see it having the effect I saw on the video. She was paranoid and panicked. I think it’s a newly engineered LSD, probably made in some kid’s basement, and she tripped. She was lucid and disoriented at the same time. She spoke clearly, but she sure wasn’t acting sane. She was also dehydrated and hadn’t eaten in more than twelve hours.”

  Grant really didn’t care about the morgue’s betting pool. “Did she have the same mark on her body as Erickson, Monroe, and Galion?”

  “No, but I found a tattoo.”

  “You’re certain it’s a tattoo?”

  Fern glanced at him as she stood outside the crypt. “Of course I’m sure. High-end, too. Quality ink, intricate design. Gorgeous, really. Almost makes me wish I were white.” She laughed. “Not.”

  She opened the door to the crypt. “Monroe’s family is taking possession of the body today. It’s being shipped back to his home state; the transport company will be here this afternoon.” She pulled off the sheet. Grant stared at the mark on the pale body, dull but still red against Monroe’s skin.

  “Have you figured out what that mark is?”

  “No, but the coroner is going with a tattoo.” Fern frowned. “His theory is that it’s a new kind of process that uses an organic ink.”

  “That’s bullshit. We’d be able to know whether it was a tat or not.”

  “I agree, but he didn’t want to hold up the body when it’s clear Monroe died of cardiac arrest.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “Well, we know his heart stopped. We have the initial drug panels back. We’ve sent the blood for additional screens, and the coroner is agreeing to cardiac arrest with a possible secondary cause unknown narcotic since his endorphin levels were high. Which makes sense. If your suicide victim comes back with something else, we have enough of Monroe’s blood samples to run more tests. Some labs have been engineering Ecstasy with LSD and other drugs. Nasty shit, and we’ve seen teenagers come through here pumped up with drugs that are variants of what’s popular. They end up in the hospitals, too. Some are brain-dead; some just die. I promise, we’ll keep at it. We want to know, and I know your Narcs want to keep up with anything new hittin
g the streets.”

  “Any other bodies come in?”

  Fern tilted her head. “We’re a morgue; we get dozens of bodies a day.”

  Grant rubbed his temple. “Bodies with marks like Monroe and Erickson.”

  “Actually, yeah. They weren’t my cases, but I’ve seen a couple marks like this over the last week.”

  “Can you send me copies of the files?”

  “Sure. On one condition.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What condition?”

  “Put in a good word with your hunky partner for me. I’m calling him my first day off.”

  Grant smiled even through the pain in his head. “He wanted me to do the same with you.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. He’s receptive.”

  “Screw that then, he can call me. But if I don’t hear from him by tomorrow-I have Sunday and Monday off-I’m calling.”

  Grant handed her Jeff’s cell phone number. “Can I see Nadine?”

  “It’s not pretty. We call her Humpty Dumpty.”

  “I want to see her tattoo.”

  “That’s easy, I took a picture. This way.”

  Grant followed Fern to her small cubicle near the intake area. Her space was filled with photographs of the morgue and the dead. Though all were eerie and bordering on the sick side, they were quite phenomenal. “You’re talented.”

  Fern grinned. “Thanks. I know, it’s a morbid hobby-can you believe Takasugi tells me that I’m morbid when he’s the one with a mummy in his living room?” She shook her head and handed Grant a picture. “You can keep it; it’s a copy. I have another in the file.”

  But Grant barely heard Fern. He stared at the tattoo. It was a perfect circle, with an intricate pattern that was the same if you looked at it from the top or the bottom. It had been on the small of her back.

  Julie had the identical tat in the same location.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Wendy gloated as she strode through Velocity casting a protective spell. She smiled, pleased that everything was coming together better than she’d planned-considering the disasters that had occurred over the last twelve hours. Losing Rachel as a vessel had been devastating, and having Raphael Cooper and Moira O’Donnell steal her chalice-Wendy was more than a little furious. That chalice had been in her coven for generations. If her mother were alive, she’d be irate that her precious chalice had been stolen by another coven.

  Nicole emphatically believed that Moira wasn’t practicing magic and intended to destroy the chalice, and even the idea of destroying such an immensely powerful and valuable tool was lunacy. Moira was likely rogue, not aligned with any of the loosely knit covens, which was why Fiona O’Donnell wanted her head on a platter. Dead or alive was the word on the street, with rewards either way.

  Living prisoners made better bargaining chips. There was no doubt in Wendy’s mind that Moira had valuable information on how to gain power to leverage into a high position within Fiona’s growing circle of covens. It would be fun to play with Moira, torture the information from her, use Wendy’s newfound talents to make up for the embarrassment of losing the chalice, for having to make another agreement with her new demon.

  Nicole was weak; no matter what her sister said, she’d obviously been banished and had come running home. Wendy had never been weak. She didn’t need her sister, but it would be nice to use her.

  Wendy finished casting the protective spell around the empty club so that she would be forewarned if anyone drew near. Only a few more hours and the demon would be able to locate Grant Nelson, but Wendy wanted him in a special place. She’d spent half the day preparing Kent Galion’s house for the ritual. Wendy needed space to give the demon what she wanted-an agreement she wouldn’t have had to make if Moira hadn’t stolen the chalice. And Moira wouldn’t have been able to steal the chalice if Julie hadn’t hidden Grant Nelson from them last night.

  Wendy did not like being made the fool. Julie deserved everything she got. If she survived the night, when the demon left her body Wendy would call on an incubus to deal with the traitor. She’d watch Julie suffer until she begged to die.

  Wendy had wanted to die many times. Her mother, Susan, was not a kind woman. Punishments were never as simple as spankings and time-outs. When Wendy was sixteen, she’d been raped by an incubus when her mother found out she’d been practicing sex magic outside of the coven.

  Susan Donovan didn’t tolerate betrayal, insolence, or anyone in her coven seeking power outside of her authority.

  But Wendy grew up and got strong. She seduced the men in her mother’s coven-weak fools, every one of them-even seduced the magician who’d taken her virginity on her fourteenth birthday. She’d been a sex slave for them, but she’d had her retribution. Wendy practically glowed with pleasure remembering her mother pleading with her to stop the ritual that ended with her grisly death.

  An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, Mother dear.

  Nicole walked onto the empty dance floor as Wendy finished the protective spell. Nicole the ignorant. Nicole the stupid. Nicole the baby. Her sister had never appreciated all she’d done for her, freeing her from their horrid mother’s control. Nicole had wanted to simply kill Susan, but where was the fun in that? What was the fun if Susan didn’t suffer what Wendy had suffered times three!

  Nicole asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I cast a protective spell.” Stupid.

  “Pam called. Grant Nelson’s partner just drove up in front of her house.”

  “Pam knows what to do,” Wendy said.

  “But-”

  Wendy put up her finger to silence her pathetic younger sister. “I’m going to show you how easy and enjoyable victory is when it is properly orchestrated by a talented magician. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  Julie couldn’t find Moira O’Donnell. She’d checked out of her hotel and Julie had no idea where she’d gone. She thought Moira must have a powerful protective spell around her aura, because Nicole had said that even Fiona O’Donnell couldn’t locate her, and rumor had it that Fiona could find anyone practically at will.

  She might not be able to find Moira, but she could find Grant. She focused on his image. His name, his face, his energy signature. She relaxed her spirit, floated, and soon she was moving directly toward him. She let herself be carried along the astral plane, the freedom intoxicating, even with everything that had happened.

  Without her voice, Julie didn’t know how to communicate with Grant. Though she had great control over astral projection, she’d avoided communicating with anyone, living or dead, because of the inherent dangers to her life. Communicating took extreme focus and energy that could be replenished only once her spirit reunited with her body.

  The astral body was always attached psychically to the physical body. As long as her astral projection had energy, she would be fine. But if she lost her strength, or if her spirit or physical body was injured, she’d snap back into her body-the invisible, indestructible thread pulling her back. If the demon still had her body when she returned, she’d never get out. And she wouldn’t be able to stop the demon from killing Grant.

  Julie continued to concentrate on Grant. Pictured him, imagined touching him, kissing him, being with him. Her body flew without conscious thought over the city. This complete and total oneness with the air could not be replicated inside the confines of a physical body. No one who hadn’t experienced astral projection at its purest could possibly understand or appreciate true inner balance. It was as if the symmetry between being human and being a goddess was achieved only when Julie was a spirit. The more she participated in the natural oneness with earth, the more she craved it. Except for the not insignificant fact that her physical body was vulnerable when she was separated.

  She shivered as if wrapped in a cool breeze and found herself floating above the Los Angeles County Morgue.

  At first, Julie thought her reflections had turned her melancholy, but she was dangerously wrong.

  T
he closer she got to the morgue, the more apprehensive she became. Her spirit kept fighting her will, trying to fly away, and she fought back, knowing Grant was inside.

  For a split second she thought he was a corpse. Ignoring her instincts, she descended into the morgue.

  Everyone looked at her.

  There were specters here, remnants of the dead who had come through. Certainly not all of the dead; otherwise the place would be overrun, since hundreds of bodies came through the morgue each week. But even a dozen apparitions were fearsome, and they saw her. They not only saw her, but they knew she was alive.

  One ghost walked toward her. It was a girl in her early teens, and she looked sad.

  Why are you here? she asked Julie.

  I’m watching that man. He’s in danger. She gestured to where Grant was talking to a petite black woman. Julie was relieved that he was still breathing.

  The girl looked at Grant and frowned. He is dying.

  Julie shivered and resisted the urge to go to Grant. How do you know?

  Look. You have to look for the colors. He’s dark. Dying.

  Julie took the ghost’s word on it. Why are you still here?

  The ghost looked around at other apparitions. I don’t know. I’ve been here awhile-my body is in the other room.

  She motioned, and Julie saw the deep freezer. On one slot was a small sign:

  DOE

  They don’t know who you are.

  She shook her head sadly.

  Everyone here is unknown?

  No. Most spirits come and go. They’re attached to their bodies, can’t seem to leave them. When their body goes, so do they. Most of the bodies who come through don’t have spirits with them. I have no friends anymore. I want to leave but don’t know how. I’m scared. Can you help me?

  I’ll try. What do I do?