“Does the lie he told you about Victor and the phone-switch thing count?” Jasmine asked.
“It wasn’t an official interrogation, so, no. And it’s not a huge deal in any case. I’ve got calls in to Victor and a few other members of his family. We’ll see if anything develops there.”
Jasmine frowned. “I don’t think they have much family. Their parents are dead and so’s their brother.”
“There’s an uncle in Arizona and a grandmother who’s still needle-sharp according to Cyrus. Her ninetieth birthday party preceded the alleged phone switch, so maybe she can shed some light.”
“Meantime, let’s see what the friendly old sarge can worm out of him.” Standing, Costello tossed Rogan Cyrus’s cell phone and headed for the door.
As always, and even with Costello’s MP3 hitting the crescendo of the William Tell Overture, Jasmine knew the precise moment when Rogan came up behind her. “You don’t think he’s the one, do you?”
“About as much as you do.”
“Is it vicious of me to almost wish he was?”
“You want an end to the horror. I don’t believe you’d want the wrong man convicted.”
“That’s a load off my mind.” She turned and her heart gave a solid thump. God help her, the man was gorgeous and even more now than before, a mystery she longed to solve. “Is any of what Cyrus told you the truth?”
“Some. I think he’s couching those truths inside a number of lies. Trick is to figure out which is which, and why he’s doing it.”
As answers went, it wasn’t much, but all Jasmine could see right then was the black feather he’d discovered and the idea that someone, maybe Cyrus, had been planning to attach it to her door. Well, that and Rogan, standing there unshaved and looking like a rebel rocker by way of a rogue cop.
Stepping out of range, she asked, “Have you had any luck contacting Victor?”
“His captain’s a wall, but we’re putting pressure on the commissioner, who, I gather, owes Costello one or two good-size favors.” She hadn’t managed to slip completely out of range, Jasmine realized, and fought a shiver when he ran his hands along her arms. “Do you want to talk about last night?”
She saw his features reflected in the window. Cautious was an understatement for the expression he wore.
For some reason, amusement stirred and helped her relax. “You are so transparent right now, Rogan. I’d say considerate as well, but I know an I’d rather-hack-off-my-right-arm-than-talk look when I see one.”
His eyes met hers. “My whole right arm?”
“Okay, your left arm. Either way, I’ll cut you a break because it’s midafternoon, we’ve been up since 6:00 a.m. and neither of us got much sleep in our separate beds last night.”
When his gaze left hers, she gave his leg a light kick. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but I’m being generous—here…” With a puzzled second look, she brought her hands together and directed her index fingers at the window. “That long wispy thing that just drifted past us didn’t quite look like fog, did it?” She raised her sights to a stand-alone building surrounded by trees. Something flickered behind the partly shuttered front windows. “Um, Rogan?”
“I see it.” He shouted for Boxman, then turned back to her. “Does this town have a fire department?”
“Volunteer. I’ll call Riese for the number while you—” she made an exasperated motion “—leave before I finish talking.”
A cranky Boxman strode out. “What’s wrong now?”
“Her line’s busy.”
“Whose line’s busy?” His head went up. “Why do I smell smoke?”
Pushing on his back, Jasmine directed him to the door. “You smell smoke, Sergeant, because that very big building across the street is on fire.”
* * *
THE VOLUNTEER FIREFIGHTERS, only five strong with Ian Cutless dead and Wesley Hamilton-Blume currently under house arrest, did what they could to save the old town meeting hall. Unfortunately, after several fruitless hours and even aided by Rogan, Boxman and a handful of shopkeepers, nothing remained except a charred and smoldering skeleton.
“For all the good we did, I could’ve been at the station house taking chunks out of our uncooperative suspect.” Boxman swiped an arm over his sooty face and came up looking like a chimney sweep. “Were there any bodies?” he asked Rogan.
“Only the ones you steamrolled when your jacket got singed.”
“It wouldn’t have gotten singed if you hadn’t shoved me into a burning doorway.”
“Which I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t decided to use Jasmine as a shield against the flames.”
“Look, kids,” Jasmine said, but held up her hands when both men shot her heated looks. “Fine. If it works for you, it works for me.”
“There was no one inside when the fire started,” Rogan said. “One of the volunteers is an electrician. He thinks the main box overloaded. Apparently some council members left a bunch of heaters switched on this morning when they left. Eight fifteen-hundred-watt heaters, one sparking electrical panel and a building that’s close to two hundred years old. Something had to give. Are you limping?” he asked Jasmine while a muttering Boxman snatched a water bottle from a bystander’s hand and guzzled it down.
“Broke a heel.” Unruffled, she opened a fresh bottle, took several thirsty sips and handed it over. “Where’s Costello?”
“Still at the station. You sure you’re not hurt?”
“I thought last year’s Prada boots would be a safe bet today, but apparently not. So, while my footwear’s on the injured list, I’m good.”
Rogan’s lips twitched. “I wouldn’t say that, love, or ask any magic mirrors you pass for their opinion.” He ran a thumb over her cheek. “You’re a little smudged.”
“Right back at you, Lieutenant. And I’ll take smudged over dead any day.” Stepping up to him, she hooked a finger in his waistband and gave a teasing tug. “All things considered, I’m feeling pretty fortunate. True, on the downside, you’ve got a feather that we agree was intended for me. But looking up, you’ve got a potential murder suspect in an interrogation room across the street. Still not sure I’m on board with that one, but Boxman’s convinced, so I’ll defer.” Moving closer, she lifted her mouth to his. “I know we have a long way to go before any of this is settled, but how would you feel about going back to Blume House and taking a nice hot bath before dinner?”
He responded by lowering his head and indulging himself in a long, deep kiss. “Best idea I’ve heard since last night.”
Jasmine slid her arms around his neck. “Costello said you were attracted to me at the safe house. Why did he know that and I didn’t?”
“Because he’s a guy, and you’re not.”
“Yes, well, as happy as I am that you noticed the difference, what does being a guy have to do with my question?”
“Not going to give me another break here, are you?”
“Limit of one per day. Sorry.”
“He saw me watching Dukes watching you.”
A regretful sigh escaped. “I used to love teddy bears.”
“I love horses. Doesn’t mean one of them won’t kick you in the face from time to time. Or want to.”
“Dukes was out in the toolshed when Wainwright’s men attacked the safe house. He emptied two ammunition clips before they got to him.”
“A guy can drool over a woman and still be a good cop, Jasmine. I’m living proof.”
“Thank you—I think.” Frustration colored her tone. “Really, though, how is it possible I missed so much?”
“I figured, and Dukes probably did, too, that you might still be in love with your ex.”
An incredulous laugh bubbled up. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I got there, eventually. It also crossed my mind that we were a bunch of sex-deprived men, spending all our days and nights looking at, but not being able to touch, a beautiful woman. Costello could handle it, the rest of us had a bit more trouble. I know for a fact that Vi
ctor took cold showers morning and night.”
“Now, how would you know that for a fact?”
“Carla told me.”
“If Carla told you, it’s because Carla wanted you, and any kind of inane conversation worked as a jumping-off—and I mean that literally—point.”
A smile ghosted around the corners of his mouth. “Interesting how we managed to know what everyone else wanted, but never let each other see what we wanted.”
She moved her hips against him. “That was a confusing statement, Lieutenant, so I’ll come back at you with this. Why are we standing outside a smoking building talking about sex when we could be back at Blume House having it?”
His glinting gaze dropped to her lips then rose up. “No idea. But if you need a comeback for your comeback, pretty sure I’ve got one that’ll work for both of us.”
* * *
THEY MADE LOVE IN THE claw-foot tub. Which led to making love against the bathroom wall, and finally in the tangled sheets of Rogan’s bed.
Was it possible to make sound emotional decisions with so many hormones bouncing around inside her? Jasmine wondered. She didn’t want to love Rogan, but she did. She always would. The question was, should she tell him about it?
Dressed in fresh jeans and a deep rose cami, she was studying her reflection at the vanity when Rogan appeared behind her. Setting his cheek next to hers, he regarded her via a century-old mirror. “You look very cat with a canary right now. Should I be worried?”
“No more than I am about you looking very cop with a bone.” She widened her eyes. “Intense, Rogan. Like your body’s here, but your mind’s somewhere else. Or is it that your mind has the capacity to be in ten different places at once, and I’m too distracted to notice that when we’re having incredible sex.”
“Only incredible?”
She gave his too-long hair a flick with her brush. “Sounds like you’ve got the canary and the bone.”
But when his dark eyes sparkled and his lips grazed the side of her neck, she tipped her head to the side and savored the slow slide from flowing warmth to searing heat.
The sound of something scratching started at the periphery of her brain. It might have matched her heartbeat for a moment. Eventually, however, it took on a life of its own and had both of them looking at the door.
Her bedroom door, Jasmine thought, and felt desire turn into dread.
With his shirt untucked, Rogan slipped his gun from the back of his jeans, shook his head for quiet and, crossing the floor, set a hand on the lever.
As if cued, the scratching stopped.
Rogan didn’t hesitate. Drawing his gun, he opened the door, glanced right and took off.
Jasmine ran to the threshold in time to see him disappear around the corner. “It’s like being with Batman,” she muttered.
Tapping a restless hand against the jamb, she glanced into her room. And, to her shock, spied not one but two black feathers attached to the outside of the door.
They were the last things she saw before everything around her went black.
Chapter Fourteen
There was someone ahead of him. Rogan could hear him running, but there was always another corner, which meant another chance for the runner to escape.
He’d have called it a farce if a thought hadn’t slammed into him at the sixth corner and brought him to a full, swearing stop.
Boris! He was still with Costello. Jasmine had insisted on it until such time as the older cop agreed to abandon his woodland campsite.
Cursing out loud now, Rogan swung back. He’d barely made the first turn when the lights went out.
Damn old houses to hell and back. Now he’d have to feel his way through the maze.
He called to Jasmine before he reached the last corner. When she didn’t respond, he hoped—prayed, actually—that she’d locked herself in her room and hadn’t followed him or gone looking for Boxman.
He called to her again, heard something ahead and raised his gun.
He didn’t expect to walk right into someone, or for that someone to take a swing at him.
“It’s me.” He blocked a set of fingernails with his forearm before they gouged his face. “Riese, it’s me—Rogan.”
Fortunately, the lights chose that moment to flutter back on. Riese collapsed weakly against the wall, a hand pressed to her stomach. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“You know you gave Jasmine and me rooms up here, right?” He bypassed her, moving to Jasmine’s door. When his eyes landed on the feathers, his stomach muscles cinched.
“I came looking for my—” Riese halted. “Those are feathers. Two of them. On Jasmine’s door.”
Rogan shoved it open, searched, set Riese aside and ran back into the corridor.
He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow his emotions to screw him up. He needed to stay a cop and think, reason it out. Had she been taken, or had she seen the feathers and taken off?
He barely noticed Riese running along behind him. “What’s going on, Rogan? The raven’s tale is a legend. At the very least, it’s ancient history. My Hezekiah’s not the real deal.”
“I know. Quiet.”
She closed her mouth, but got a hand on his shirt.
He heard something, a small sound, coming from a point to his right.
“What’s behind those doors?” he asked Riese.
“A ton of cobwebs mostly. That section of the house has been closed up since before I was born. I was told the rooms are small and— What are you doing? The doors are locked. You won’t… You will. You did.” Her finger crooked back. “But you shouldn’t have been able to.” She crept forward. “Did someone break the lock?”
“Picked it.” He let one of the doors creak open and his eyes adjust. “Any light switches nearby?”
She gave her head a bemused shake before catching hold of him again.
Behind them, the lights flared and faded to half power.
“Wesley screwed up the main,” she whispered. “My cousin’s looking at the panel in the cellar.” Her grip tightened. “God, this area’s ickier than the old house. But there’s a switch.” She clicked it and one of three overheads actually lit.
Crouching, Rogan examined several long streaks on the dusty floor. He listened and heard a faint but discernible creak.
Riese leaned in deeper. “Floor or door?”
Rogan shook his head, pushed his senses forward.
The corridor forked numerous times. Luckily, Riese found more switches. Only a few of the overheads worked, but he wasn’t prepared to return for a flashlight.
He’d kick himself over mistakes made when he had Jasmine back. Right now he needed to find her before the murderer did what three black feathers promised he would.
If he hurt her, Rogan thought darkly, only one promise would matter. The one he’d already made to himself involving the killer’s body and how many pieces it would be in.
* * *
JASMINE SURFACED FROM A SEA of nothing to a semi-aware state where she seemed to be floating outside her own body. Very weird.
Wings flapped all around her, while ravens—it could only be ravens—croaked hoarsely overhead.
Then, as if it was all a dream, the sound receded, her mind tilted and blessed silence slipped back in to consume her.
The next time she woke, there was no sound at all. No light, either, she realized, and absolutely no indication of where she might be or how long she’d been there.
Some kind of scratchy fabric covered her, and she felt a plank floor below. But why was she was lying on it, and how had she gotten here?
The lights had gone out, she remembered that. Then someone had slapped a cloth to her face and—nothing.
“Jasmine…” The creepy voice came from her right and momentarily stalled her breathing. But sliding under again wouldn’t get her out of here, so she controlled her fear and experimented with her arm. When she found she could move it, she very carefully tested her other limbs.
“Wake up
, sleeping Jasmine, and talk to me.”
Part of her knew she should be much more frightened than she was, but for some reason, it was relatively easy to beat back the terror. Her mind kept hazing over, and she couldn’t seem to hold a thought, good or bad.
“Where am I?” was the raspy best she could manage.
“Impressive,” the voice congratulated. “You’ve regained consciousness very quickly. Now, be a smart girl and don’t move anything except your right hand. Feel the cloth bag next to you? Your phone’s inside. Well, not your phone, but a phone. Do you have it?”
“Yes.” She worked through the haze, endeavored to get her bearings. Another minute and she might be able to push herself up.
“Did you see the gift I left on your door?”
The fear sneaked in a little further. “Yes, I saw it.”
“Do you also remember that I said you were going to suffer?”
Her heart started to pound. “I remember.” The haze was evaporating rapidly now, taking with it her false sense of calm.
“You sound more alert. Are you?”
“Not— No,” she lied.
Gathering her strength, she made it to her knees. The scratchy thing covering her was a blanket. She let the edges fall back and tried to see. But all she encountered was more blackness. Why was everything always black?
“If you’re moving around, Jasmine, I really wouldn’t. Abrupt motion could startle your roommates, and should that happen, you might find yourself bleeding rather profusely.”
Her chest constricted into a ball of dread. But she took the murderer’s advice and stopped moving.
She had to think. Shove the nightmare away and make her mind work. She’d heard birds the first time she’d woken up. Pretty sure she had. In Raven’s Cove, birds equaled ravens. The murderer wanted her to suffer. Would scaring her half to death by locking her in a room with five or six big black birds qualify as suffering?
If they attacked her with beaks and claws, yes, it definitely would.
Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan Page 14