Blood Score

by Jordan Dane

  He unlocked his front door and flicked on the lights. A pale yellow glow came off the industrial fixtures overhead. His place was nothing more than a converted warehouse on the fringe of downtown Chicago. He had no neighbors and got his mail from a post office box near the station house. Although his living arrangement had a stark empty feel—without even a remote resemblance to a conventional home—it suited him. He could pick up and go without looking back. Nothing bound him to the place.

  His living quarters said more about his life than a thousand words.

  The wide-open space was defined by brick walls, exposed pipes, and air ducts with sheets of corrugated metal streaked by rust for ambience. He had his utilities, a simple kitchen and bathroom, and a loft bedroom elevated on steel girders and accessible by a metal stairway. His place had function, with wooden crates and mismatched furniture he’d accumulated over the years.

  It contained nothing personal.

  After his parents had been killed, he’d become detached by choice. He figured if he didn’t care about anything, he wouldn’t have much to lose. His life had been set adrift to float wherever the current would take him, an aimless existence that gave him no sense of belonging anywhere.

  The foster care system had taught him a bare bones way of living, institutional-style, where a garbage bag contained the whole of a child’s possessions. With the exception of his friendship with Manny, he’d never gotten too attached to anything or anyone. He’d never placed much value on material things and hadn’t bought much new, even when he could afford it. Cronan paid his bills and focused on his work. That was it. He knew people, but he had few acquaintances that he could call real friends, especially after Manny died. Angel was the only fragile link he had to a best friend he could never replace.

  Besides Angel and his work, nothing else mattered to him—except for One-eyed Jack.

  The battle-scarred old yellow tabby was a twenty-pound bruiser with only one good eye. Two years ago, a week after Manny died, the cat had crawled through an open window and adopted him. Cronan had no idea why Jack claimed such a messed up human being, but he’d never questioned the cat’s marginal taste in roommates.

  Jack had come to stay and from that day forward, Cronan had a reason to come home.

  At first he’d wondered what it said about him that the only commitment he’d made to another living soul was to take in a scarred old tomcat, but that wasn’t even close to the truth. In reality, the stray had picked him, not the other way around. Jack had been the mature one in their relationship.

  Only minutes after unlocking his front door, Gabe looked down to see One-eyed Jack rubbing against his leg with his tail up. His purr sounded like an old diesel engine.

  “Hey, buddy. How was your day?”

  He flicked on the fluorescent light in his makeshift kitchen, shrugged out of his holster and emptied his pockets on the counter.

  “You hungry?”

  As usual, Jack looked at him with one good eye and yammered about his misadventures, mewling non-stop in cat speak. There were days when Cronan thought he understood Jack, like today. Jack usually waited for him to open a tin of cat food and serve the treat on a paper plate. They’d both eat with Cronan standing over his kitchen sink and Jack chowing down on the kitchen counter.

  Today Jack surprised him.

  The yellow tabby didn’t wait for his dinner. The cat lumbered across the concrete warehouse floor toward a spiral metal stair, an emergency fire exit that led up to a high louvered window Jack used to come and go. In the shadows beneath the stairs, Cronan saw a dark shape on his floor, barely visible under the light. He had to step closer and kneel down for a better look.

  Jack had brought him a dead mouse.

  “I appreciate you sharing your mouse, pal.” He winced. “But next time, could you make it a whole one?”

  ***

  Downtown Chicago – Bogart’s Bistro & Wine Bar

  Angel had never been to Bogart’s, but the wine bar had a solid reputation with its upscale American cuisine. The décor was a nostalgic tribute to Humphrey Bogart with striking black and white prints of the actor adorning the walls and piano music playing in the background. A single red rose had been placed in a crystal vase, set atop every white linen tablecloth. Under the flickering warmth of candlelight, each table made Bogart’s a discreet place to have a quiet conversation.

  Angel checked her watch and noticed she was five minutes late as she walked up to the blonde hostess behind a podium.

  “I’m supposed to meet someone.” She looked into the bar, past the young woman’s shoulder. “Never mind. I see him. Thanks.”

  Ethan sat in a corner of the bar. He stared straight ahead, rigid in his chair with his hands clasped in front of him, his white cane folded on the table next to a glass of red wine and a bottle. She took a deep breath and headed for his table. When she got close enough to say hello, he surprised her by standing before she spoke.

  “I’m glad you could come.” He held out his hand.

  “How did you know I was here?” She put her hand in his. “I hadn’t said anything.”

  When he smiled, she had to catch her breath. She had no idea perfection could be improved upon.

  “Your perfume. I remembered it from before.” He let go of her hand and offered her a seat. “Please, join me. Can I get you something to drink? Or would you like to share the bottle of Merlot that I’ve started?”

  “Actually, the Merlot sounds good.” Even though she’d asked for a glass of wine, Angel would sip it slow. She didn’t need the distraction of an alcohol buzz. Being in Ethan’s company would be diversion enough.

  “When you called, it sounded as if you had something urgent to tell me, Mr. Chandler.”

  He smiled. “Direct and to the point. I like that, but please call me Ethan.”

  After the waitress came with a glass and poured Angel’s wine, Ethan ordered a small sampler of appetizers, and they had their privacy again.

  “I wanted to talk to you privately. What I have to say will be hard enough to talk about.” He sighed. “Your partner didn’t appear to be a very tolerant man.”

  Tolerant? Gabe was one of the most laid back guys she’d ever met, but his sarcastic wit and outspoken ways tended to leave people with the impression that he was judgmental and opinionated.

  “I understand. Is this about your relationship with Olivia? Do you have any theories on why she was murdered? Or by whom?”

  “I’m not sure about a theory. I certainly don’t have anyone to add to your suspect list, but I thought you should know that Olivia had a darker side to her nature. She’s not the type of woman anyone should take at face value. Perhaps the years of being a young girl growing up on those hunting trips with her father, she experienced life in a way most girls would not. Maybe that had something to do with the way she turned out.”

  “And what way was that…exactly?”

  “Olivia had…certain appetites in bed. I’d never met anyone like her. She took what she wanted and was very…aggressive.” He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable for the first time since she’d sat down. “Being with Olivia was addictive, even when it wasn’t in my best interest. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I thought it might be important for you to know.”

  “When you say she was aggressive, what do you mean by that?” She lowered her voice and leaned toward him.

  It was clear by the look on his face that Ethan felt uncomfortable talking about their personal sex life, but Angel knew there was much more to Olivia’s life than being the daughter of a prominent family.

  “She liked…props. And she enjoyed playing dark sexual fantasy games.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t really want to go into it here. Can we talk about something else?”

  If they had been at the police station, she wouldn’t have cut him slack, but he did have a point. And his cooperation would dry up if she pressed him for more. A change in subject was in order.

  “We found a photo of
you and Olivia at her place. She was wearing a black dress, and you were holding your violin. Do you remember the event?” Angel wanted to kick herself for describing Olivia’s dress like he would recall it.

  He shrugged and said, “I’m not sure I can name the event. We’ve attended a few, between her charity functions and my performances. Sorry.”

  “It just looked as if Olivia knew the person who’d taken the photo. We were interested in getting the name of the photographer.”

  “That might be easier. It was probably Bryce Peterson. If it was an event where I played, Bryce would have been with us and he often brought his camera. He’s an old friend from my Juilliard days.”

  Angel recognized the name of the man with the angry voice who had left a message on Olivia’s answering machine.

  “Does he live in Chicago?”

  “Yes, he does.” He gave her an address, and she wrote it down on a small pad of paper she carried in her purse. “I’m helping him until he gets on his feet again. I own the place where he’s living. It was rental property before Bryce moved in. He’s had it rough over the last few years and needed my help. He’s a violinist like me.”

  Not like you, she wanted to correct him, but she let him finish.

  “He’s been in and out of rehab. The music Gods have not been kind to him, but he’s been sober for nearly a year now. I hope the worst is behind him.”

  “Did Bryce get along with Olivia?”

  Ethan hesitated and didn’t answer her question right away. Eventually he asked one of his own.

  “Why are you asking about Bryce?”

  “We need to find people who knew Olivia, that’s all,” she insisted. “So did they get along, Bryce and Olivia?”

  “They had their good days and bad, like most people. But after a while, they kept their differences from me. They knew it upset me to hear them argue.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  “Bryce wouldn’t have hurt Olivia. He knew how much she meant to me.”

  “And you consider Bryce a good friend, someone you trust, right?”

  “Yes, implicitly. Now what’s this about?” he demanded.

  Angel heard the tension in his voice and saw it in his eyes. She had to remember that they were in a bar, not the police station. If she wanted his continued cooperation, she’d have to dial it back and play it smarter.

  “During an investigation of this nature, we have to ask a lot of questions. Not all of them will be easy to hear and not all of them will apply to Olivia, but to find out who did this, we have to ask the tough questions.”

  He sat back, considering what she had said. “I understand. Please, go on.”

  Angel had been sidestepping the question of Olivia being faithful, but now she had to take her own advice and ask the tough question.

  “Have you ever suspected Olivia of cheating on you?”

  Ethan took in a deep breath and slumped back in his seat with his eyes shut. He sat for a long while, not saying a word. Angel didn’t press him. She knew he would answer when he was ready. Eventually, he did.

  “Yes, I had my suspicions.”

  ***

  Outside Chicago

  Cronan drove his Crown Vic down a dark stretch of road with the dim lights from his dashboard and the moonlight overhead coloring his world. His high beams caught the shadows of tall grasses whipping in the wake of his vehicle as he drove past undeveloped acreage. The lights off the interstate were only a memory.

  In the distance, he saw what he looked for.

  A solitary red glow cut through the darkness. He knew from prior visits that the red light had been installed to serve as a beacon for those in the know. As he got closer to his destination, he recognized a familiar stone wall that surrounded a private estate, backlit by an impressive array of landscape lighting that also served a purpose for security.

  He pulled off the two-way road onto a private drive that led to a guard station at the main gated entrance. An armed man in black paramilitary gear walked up to his vehicle, and Cronan saw others behind the gate. He rolled down his window and gave the man his business card and his purpose for coming.

  “Is she expecting you?” the guard asked.

  “No, but give her my name. She’ll see me.”

  The guard grimaced when he read Cronan’s card and saw he was a cop. After the man gave him a cocky smirk, he did as he was asked. Minutes later, he came back to the vehicle with a solemn expression on his face and handed his card back. All business now.

  “You’re clear. Proceed to the front entrance. Someone will be there to escort you.”

  As the guard spoke, the massive wrought iron gate rumbled open, and the armed men behind the barrier moved aside. Cronan drove onto the grounds and headed for the gothic style mansion at the end of a long driveway. The residence looked more like a French Chateau in limestone with ornate spires and towers, but the occasional gargoyle was added more as a whimsical touch by the woman he’d come to see.

  He drove through a beautifully manicured landscape to the expansive portico across from an impressive fountain. After he parked, a uniformed valet came for his keys, but Cronan declined.

  “I won’t be staying.”

  “Yes, sir.” Judging by the surprised look on the valet’s face, the young man hadn’t heard that often.

  As promised by the guard at the gate, a man dressed in a tuxedo stood at the front entrance to the manor. Cronan would be underdressed in his jeans, black T-shirt, and leather jacket, but he didn’t care. He had a job to do. He hadn’t come for fun and games.

  He waved to the man in the tux and headed inside. Cronan had been working his connections most of the night, showing a photo of Olivia Davenport at other locations on his way here. This was the third place he’d been to, asking if anyone had seen the striking blonde. He’d saved the Moreau estate for his last stop of the night.

  Here he had someone who trusted him enough to give him the inside track. If socialite Olivia Davenport was into rough sex, Simone Moreau would know about it.

  Chapter 7

  Outside Chicago

  “She’s in the theatre, and she’s asked you to join her. This way.” The man in the tux nodded and turned his back, expecting Cronan to follow.

  Cronan noticed the guy in the penguin suit carried a concealed weapon. Security for the guests had gotten tighter at Chez Moreau. He could understand why, given the reason that had brought him to the mansion in the first place, years ago.

  With his footsteps echoing down a tiled corridor, Cronan couldn’t help but notice the wood paneled walls adorned with erotic oil paintings—images depicting sexual acts from all over the world. Marble busts of suggestive body parts were mounted on white pedestals. He’d seen the Moreau gallery before, the few times he’d been to the estate.

  But what never ceased to amaze him were the uninhibited Moreau guests.

  Smaller rooms off the corridor held private parties. Each chamber had a different theme or purpose. Everywhere he looked, he saw men and women dressed in body harnesses and chains, or not dressed at all, being serviced by Moreau staff. Some rooms had contraptions he’d never seen before, geared to mechanically fulfill the darkest fantasy at the flip of a switch and without the frailty of the human body. Anyone could watch. Other suites were more private, but not the gallery.

  Scantily clad young men and women served potent drinks and savory hors d'oeuvres on silver trays, ignoring the occasional fondle. The discreet staff catered to every guest’s desires and brought a sense of civility to carnal excess. Given the fact he had only seen a fraction of the estate, Cronan had to wonder how many guests were on the premises tonight. Even in a dire economy, Chez Moreau’s clientele had grown.

  He’d forgotten how shocking it was to visit Simone’s. Everything he saw reassured him that he’d made the right decision about not bringing his partner. Angel would have resented him making the decision for her, but Cronan hadn’t brought her for one main reason. And it had little to do wi
th saving his partner from the embarrassment of seeing undulating butts or cocks fully rigged from stem to stern. He knew the volatile and exotic Simone Moreau wouldn’t speak as freely in the company of a stranger.

  Fortunately for him, Cronan was no stranger.

  His personal escort brought him to the end of a hall and through a double door. In a dark room, a small theatre colored in black and red velvet held an intimate group of people.

  When Cronan walked by an older woman with silver white hair and intense blue eyes, who sat with a very young Hispanic man two rows behind Simone, she gave him a wink and followed him down the aisle with her eyes. The Hispanic kid smiled at him after he noticed the older woman’s interest, as if he had extended an invitation to join them.

  Making eye contact at Simone’s place had risks.

  Most of the action took place center stage. There was no music, only the sounds of groans and flesh slapping flesh. Three hulking men were taking liberties with a smaller man, and a young woman near the front of the stage indulged her fantasies with fruit. The whole thing looked like performance art.

  The guy in the tux waved him toward a middle row. Simone Moreau sat alone in a row directly in front of the stage, halfway back. Her eyes were glued to the performance until she saw him approach.

  “I’ll never eat a Kiwi again.” He grinned and sat next to her. “Hello, Simone. You look beautiful as ever.”

  The minute he sat, the young French woman touched his cheek with the velvet softness of her fingertips. A stark contrast to her pale skin, Simone’s full pouty lips were painted red, and her dark smoky eyes glistened in the dim lighting from the stage. Her long dark hair looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed, a sexy tumble. She wore only a short floral silk robe with her bare feet resting on the seat in front of her.

  Cronan suspected she had nothing on underneath the silk.

  “Gabriel, darling. You pleasure me with a visit, but what happened to your face?” She smiled. “I must say. Those bruises make you look dangerously sexy. Délicieux.”