by Erin Hayes
“You may be right about that use of force. I’m pretty certain I’ll find a severed aorta during the post.”
They gently lowered Lansing back to the floor. Derek stood up, and Jessica watched in horror, as he started to put his hands in the pockets of his slacks. She shook her head. He frowned, and shook his head back at her. She pointed to his bloody gloves.
“Oh, shit. Thanks.” He snapped off the gloves, turning them inside out as he did.
Dr. Greene grinned at Derek. “That would’ve upset your dry cleaner, huh?” His smirk widened, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Jessica had no choice, but to laugh. It felt odd, laughing with a dead man lying on the floor at her feet, but on another level, it felt good. Some of the tension that had her muscles tied in knots, finally dissipated. Derek rolled his eyes, and Dr. Greene chuckled to himself.
“And the rest of these wounds?” Jessica could see stab wounds on Lansing’s arms, a shallow one on his face, and one that looked like it went through the back of his hand. Strangely, there was almost no blood on his dark slacks, other than a few drops scattered on the legs. The contrast between the ravaged torso and the almost relaxed posture of his lower body, was startling. And unsettling.
“Can’t really say if they’re pre or postmortem until I get him back to the lab. There are no hesitation marks that I can see, but there’s too much blood for any real conclusions.”
Derek scribbled notes in his battered notebook. Dr. Greene glanced at Derek, then gave Jessica a bemused look. Feeling slightly foolish, she patted her pockets, thankfully finding a pen and a little notebook missing its cover. She had an excellent memory, could recall pretty much everything everyone had said from the moment she’d arrived, everything she’d seen. Whatever that ability was, it had gotten her top grades since high school. But it was expected that she takes notes, so she did. Dr. Greene cleared his throat, and she asked the next in her series of questions parading through her mind.
“Time of death?”
“Liver temp puts death at just after 1:00 a.m.”
“Anything else jump out at you?”
Dr. Greene frowned. “Besides there being no sign of a struggle?”
Jessica nodded. “Besides that. With the body.”
Knowing Dr. Greene, and seeing the tension in his body, she knew he was aching to pace. He wandered around during autopsies, sometimes holding some piece of the body in his hand, ruminating. But here, he was limited in so many ways. Finally, he met her gaze.
“There’s nothing else I can really tell you, until we get him back to my office. I’ll run a toxicology screen, of course, check for anything that might have incapacitated him.”
“Thanks.”
Someone behind her, probably a CSI tech, called Dr. Greene's name, and he nodded, before fixing Jessica with a piercing glance. “I'll see you at the autopsy.” He gave the body a wide berth, and left the room. She made an obligatory note, then watched Derek flip to a new page, and continue scribbling.
Rather than interrupt, she looked around the room. It was tastefully decorated, masculine without being overdone. She knew from the newspaper that the Lansings enjoyed entertaining, and that the mayor had frequently brought the latest and greatest stars into his office to pose for photos with him. The walls held an array of photos, all in matching frames. Finally, the scratching of Derek’s pen stopped.
“Did the guard see anyone leaving? Anyone come in? Anything?”
Derek flipped back a few pages. “He said he talked to Lansing a little after 11:00 p.m., and then started his tour around the property. Then...” Derek frowned at his notebook. “He said he thinks he fell asleep.”
That was a new one. And as far as alibis went, it was very lame. “Fell asleep? Some security company, that is.”
“Yeah, well, he wasn't too keen on admitting it, but there was a gap of about twenty minutes, from somewhere after 11:30 p.m., to just before the alarm sounded, that the guard couldn't account for. When he, 'came to' as he put it, he was in the back garden, sitting under a tree. There are security cameras. They’re getting the tapes to the techs, so we can verify that.”
“Great. The killer could have run right past him.”
“Yeah, I thought about that. The perp could have also walked right out the front door, and down the street. If we’re lucky, maybe the cameras caught that, too.”
There were noises in the hall, and Jessica glanced up to see Dr. Greene in the doorway. “They’re ready to take the body to the morgue.”
Jessica stepped out of the office, and glanced at the two guys who came in with a gurney, the black body bag riding on top. She watched them go through the careful ritual of unzipping the bag, opening it, then lifting Lansing onto the gurney. They tucked his arms and legs into the bag before zipping it closed. Then they reversed the journey, pushing the gurney down the hall. One of the wheels squeaked, and the shrill sound made her wince.
Her headache throbbed steadily, like a little man with an icepick in her left temple, driving it into her brain, over and over. It was turning into a full-blown migraine, and she swore under her breath. Maybe there was ibuprofen in her car. But right now, her car seemed to be miles away. Absently, she rubbed her forehead, trying to get her thoughts organized, to make some sense out of what she knew so far.
“Okay. CSI is almost done. Dr. Greene has the body. The guard is at the station. What am I missing…what’s next? Blood…tox…motive…weapon…”
“You say something?”
She jerked her head up. Derek was coming back down the hall, a bemused look on his face.
“No, just thinking out loud. We need a weapon. Let’s check the kitchen.”
The kitchen was just as tastefully decorated as the rest of the home, with granite counters, cherry cabinets, and a large restaurant-style range.
“Someone likes to cook.” Derek stood, hands on hips, surveying the room.
“It looks too clean, but maybe Mrs. Lansing’s just a clean freak.”
“So, what does your kitchen look like? Not this clean.”
She shook her head. “There’s probably sugar spilled on the counter, coffee grounds still in the coffee pot. A dish towel on the counter. You know, like someone lives there. This place looks almost sterile.”
“It’s probably because they have a housekeeper.” He nudged her in the ribs. “Might want to think about that, now that you’re making the big bucks.”
She moved away and gave him a scowl, but tempered it with a smile that she didn’t feel. “Knock it off. Let’s find the knives, see if one is missing.”
Of course, the knives were all there, neatly arranged in their rack.
“Shit. Struck out with those.” She didn’t want to start a random search until they knew what they were looking for.
“Yeah. That would have been too easy.”
“Speaking of the wife, where’s she?” The window above the sink looked out over the backyard. Right now, between the outside lights, and the CSI team’s portables, it was lit up like Christmas. She watched, as a white-suited man moved beneath a large oak tree, stopping occasionally to pick up something from the ground, or snap a photo. He worked methodically at his task. It was a kind of comforting scene, the man repeating the same gestures, walking, stopping, placing a flag, then snapping a photo. The flash went off and for an instant she saw in her mind’s eye what that photo would look like, the small indent in the ground, a footprint maybe. The guard’s…
No. It wasn’t human. It was animal. A dog. No… It was…smaller, narrower. Cat? No. Small claw marks…
“The guard said the wife is out of town at a fundraiser, somewhere south of here, some school literacy thing. He couldn’t remember the exact town, but he gave me her number.”
Derek’s voice cut through the image. She turned away from the window, and the image of the footprint vanished from her mind, no memory of it remaining. “No one’s called her yet?”
Derek shook his head. “Thought I’d leave that
for you.”
She turned back to the window. This was the part she hated, calling the family, telling them that their loved one was dead. Not just dead, but brutally murdered. It seemed so impersonal, to have to call the mayor’s wife in the middle of the night and tell her that her husband was dead. She didn’t know this woman, hadn’t ever seen her outside of a television screen, where she always stood by her husband’s side with a bright, cheery smile on her face.
As the lead detective, Jessica could have easily assigned this heartbreaking task to someone else, but she knew that she needed to do it. It was part of the job.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks. Give me her number.”
Derek tore a sheet out of his notebook, and handed it to her. She looked at the paper, the numbers written in Derek’s neat handwriting. There was so much weight to that little piece of paper, to the numbers in blue ink on white paper. But it was her duty to notify the next of kin, and she would do it as gently as she could.
With a sigh, she pulled out her cell phone, and dialed the number. The call went through, the distant ringing making her feel cold and alone. Then the ringing stopped, and a woman’s voice, groggy with sleep, answered.
Jessica turned back to the window. “Mrs. Lansing? This is Detective Sharpe with the Chicago PD. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Bad news…that was an understatement.
Chapter Three
“Fuck it. There’s nothing else we can do here. Let’s go interview the guard, and see what he has to say.”
Jessica and Derek went through all the rooms downstairs, avoiding the crime scene investigators who were still carefully combing through the scene and placing their flags around key points of interest.
“Bet you’re tired of dealing with mayors.” Derek shook his head. “The other one…that whole case was a mess.”
“Yeah…”
The case he referred to was more than a mess, it was a total nightmare, starting with the kidnapping of the former mayor’s daughter. But it had been the case that had gotten her promoted from patrol officer to detective.
His daughter had managed to call the police and provide them with a description of her possible location. Jessica was told to wait outside of an apartment for the search warrant to come through. There had been…not a mix-up, exactly, but something had gone wrong in the timing of the warrant’s execution. Jessica entered the apartment before the detectives, to clear the scene, but she ended up surprising the suspect. He ran, she caught him, and made the arrest.
During the trial, the defense claimed she entered before the warrant was signed, and had no cause to make the arrest. The prosecution fought back hard, the lead attorney practically spoon-feeding her the testimony he wanted her to give. In the end, the evidence was admitted, and the man who she’d arrested had been charged, and then found guilty. In her heart, she knew she’d done everything by the book, down to the minute she opened the door and entered the building.
But that case was also the reason she was single. Most of the articles written called her a hero, and claimed that her promotion was well-deserved. But one article, written by a reporter—who at that time was her boyfriend— had brought up the whole issue of the warrant, and had questioned whether she deserved the promotion, or if she needed more experience before she was worthy of the title as lead detective.
Being single wasn’t what she wanted to think about now, though. That had been months ago—almost seven, if she let herself count it out, but she refused to. Derek’s comments had brought back bad memories, only adding to the stress of this case, and she didn’t need it—not now. The butterflies in her stomach turned sour, more like bats flapping around, and that managed to make her headache worse.
“Why are you scowling?”
“I’m not…” But she was. She tried to relax. “I’m just thinking.”
Derek laughed, following her down the hall, and onto the front porch. The sky overhead was a dirty gray, the color of unpolished silver, dull and cold. It didn’t do anything to lift her mood, but she took a deep breath of pre-dawn air. That eased the pain in her head a little, but she still wanted coffee, and ibuprofen.
But the crowd being held back by the yellow tape soured her outlook. The press was there, as always, hugging the line, pushing forward. Derek, who had been right behind her, was suddenly absent as she started down the steps alone. She thought about issuing a statement, something brief that would quell any rumors. That was ridiculous; there were probably rumors flying all over already. And she was sure she didn’t want to hear any of them.
So, she stopped at the bottom of the steps. The reporters turned to her as a group, their eyes finding her instantly, a certain avarice in their gaze that made her cringe. A barrage of recorders shot toward her, followed by a chorus of questions. The voices all melded together, and for a minute she was reminded of seals at the zoo. Out of some sort of protective instinct, she stepped back, putting distance between herself and them.
Words came to her in her mind without effort. The right thing to say, how to say it, clear and concise, all nicely organized in her head for once. She straightened, took a breath, and faced the sea of faces. Then she saw him. All those perfect words tangled in her mind, got stuck on her tongue, and then evaporated completely. All because of him.
Euros Desard. Reporter for the Daily Times. The writer of the article that broke her heart. The man who left her questioning everything about her ability as a detective. The bastard she once loved with all her heart. The painfully gorgeous man who once loved her so intensely, that she felt safe and secure, cocooned in the heat of his touch. The world ceased to exist when she was with Euros.
Euros Desard. The now an ex-boyfriend for more than half a year. The man who ruined all other men for her. The man she would never forget, no matter how much time passed by. No matter how hard she tried.
He wasn’t standing front and center, wasn’t pushing a tape recorder toward her. He was at the back of the crowd, hands in the pockets of the long black coat he always wore. There was no mistaking that muscular silhouette, with the collar turned up, obscuring his face. All except for those steel-gray eyes.
And of course, he was looking right at her.
Even from way back there, his gaze was just as intense as she remembered. And even from that far away, that intensity sent a rush of heat shooting through her body. For a minute—a disconcerting, dizzying minute—she was completely lost in those dark eyes; everything else, all the voices of reporters and police radios, faded away.
“Sharpe.”
She jerked her head up, and spun around on the step, losing her balance in the process. Michael Ross stood behind her. He grabbed her elbow in a grip that was startling for both its strength and for its total lack of concern her actual safety. As she’d expected, he was dressed in a bespoke suit, looking as fresh as if he’d just stepped out of his penthouse apartment. Instantly, she felt grubbier than she had a minute ago.
“Sir.”
“Careful.” He pulled her back upright, and let her go. “Are you going to make a statement?”
“I…I was…yes. I was just going to…”
Ross said nothing, and that unnerved her even more. His hands smoothed down his tie, today a subdued power-red number, before he stepped forward, going down the steps toward the mob. He radiated steely control, and as if by silent command, the reporters all took a half step back. But the recorders were still extended, and they were still shouting questions. Ross stopped, swept the group with a cold glance, and then started to speak.
As his voice reached Jessica, strong and assured, she pulled up the collar of her jacket, jammed her hands in the pockets, and turned her back on Ross, and the reporters.
His voice carried back to her. He gave the kind of statement he was so good at delivering: polished, calm, and yet saying nothing at all. The kind of statement she’d have given, if Ross hadn’t unnerved the hell out of her. The walk to her car seemed to take an eternity, and the whole she felt eye
s watching her every move. For a minute, she wasn’t sure which was worse, knowing Euros was watching her, or wondering if Ross had turned to watch her leave.
Her car seemed like a haven, even if the seat was cold on the backs of her legs, and her breath clouded the windshield. But it started on the first try, like always, and she patted the dashboard.
“Good girl.” At least something was going right in her day.
The engine purred and the heater put out tendrils of warmth. As she put it in gear, she thought about turning toward her apartment, and going back to bed. But as she drove past the barricade, waving at the patrol on duty, she flicked on her blinker to head to the station. She had wanted this job for as long as she could remember. She wasn’t going to let anyone, much less Ross or Euros, fuck it up.
Euros watched Jessica walk away, his eyes lingering on her form, as she disappeared down the block. He paid little attention to Ross, the pompous ass who wasn’t saying anything that Euros didn’t already know. In fact, he was sure he knew more than anyone else did about this murder. He absolutely knew more about it than Ross did, and probably even Jessica. Ross, he didn’t give a damn about, but he certainly gave a damn about Jessica. One thing he was certain of, was that magic was involved. It was so thick he could see it and taste it. It made his skin prickle and his head hurt. It was dark magic, the blackest he’d ever encountered in his many years as a Gatekeeper. From the moment he’d arrived at the scene, every sense of his had been occupied with it, trying to track it, itching to find the source. The mayor’s home radiated pure evil, and it was his job, his sworn duty, to track down the who, and why, and where.
He’d cooled his heels with the rest of the reporters, listening with one ear to what they said. As usual, they were way off the mark, kicking around outrageous theories, and bizarre suspects in Lansing’s death. But his mind was occupied with more important matters. Magic seemed to have escaped its boundaries—black magic—crossing through portals that were sealed. Or had been sealed. Someone—or something—had breached those portals, and was loose in this world. And it had happened on his watch.