by C. E. Murphy
And he had watched her for years, maybe keeping her safe. A jolt of curiosity shot through her. Was Alban the reason she felt inexplicably safe in the park every night? She was wary, even frightened, but beneath caution lay a certainty as solid as her heartbeat. Idiot, she thought, but she met Alban’s eyes. “I—”
Cameron yanked the front door open, flinging herself out of the way as two armed police officers crashed through, taking in the narrow hallway and the layout of the apartment with a glance. One of them sighted the trio on the balcony and barked, “This way!”
Cole spun to face the officers, hands lifted, the phone still clasped in one. Margrit heard Tony shout, “Surrender!” both from the phone and in an echo from below.
Alban’s lips curled in a snarl, his humanity suddenly lost. “Tomorrow,” he growled.
The word was almost lost beneath cops shouting, “Put your hands up!” Margrit threw a panicked glance at the police officers and lifted her arms, her gaze snapping back to Alban.
“Who’s on first,” he said. “After sunset.”
Then he leaped, an astonishing burst of motion that flung him from Margrit’s balcony to the next one up, kitty-corner. Another leap brought him to the seventh floor, then to the eighth, as Margrit gaped after him. The cops burst onto her balcony, weapons cupped, but Alban disappeared over the rooftop, and Tony barked an order against shooting. One of the cops lowered his weapon, staring toward the empty sky. “What the fuck was that?”
“Margrit?” Cole’s voice was filled with fear and confusion. “What…”
She looked at him helplessly, spreading her fingers. One of the cops grabbed her arm, twisting it down behind her back. Margrit let him turn her without struggling, wincing at the cold bite of metal snapping around her wrist. “You’re coming down to the station to answer some questions about some murders, lady.”
The ride to the station was conducted in infuriated silence, Margrit’s only statement being that she wanted her lawyer. Tony, swearing, made the call from the station, while she was herded unceremoniously to an interrogation cell. She sat down in the chair provided, fully aware that its front legs were subtly shorter than its back legs. Just enough to keep her off balance, literally, her thighs forced to keep her aligned. It was one of a hundred tricks to make suspects uncomfortable and on edge. Margrit pressed her cold fingers against her eyes, the cuffs gone now that she was confined in the cell. The minutes stretched out, her thighs trembling slightly with the effort of keeping herself level, but she disregarded the temptation to get up and pace. She wanted to project tired impatience and a willingness to cooperate, not the image of a caged animal.
Tony finally stalked in and slammed the door, frustration and anger radiating with every move he made. Margrit watched the muscles in his tense shoulders bunch and release, adding to their breadth. If it weren’t for the anger and agitation, he would be beautiful in motion, but instead he paced as if it were he who’d been arrested.
Not like Alban, Margrit thought wearily. The gargoyle’s movements were graceful. Inhumanly graceful. She huffed a breath of semiamused dismay and slid down in the chair.
It seemed to trigger a reaction. “What the fuck is going on, Margrit? What are you doing with this guy? Is it some kind of—what is it?”
“Counsel would advise me not to answer that, Tony, and I’m not going to.”
“Come on, Margrit, this is me and you, not—”
“No.” Her voice was sharp. “Me and you happen outside of interrogation cells, Tony. Right now anything I say can and will be held against me.”
“I don’t really believe—”
“Good. I mean, the worst you could get me for is co-conspirator…” Worst. As if that didn’t carry a twenty-to-life sentence itself. “But you obviously know that’s patently ridiculous, because you haven’t arrested me for anything. What do you want?”
Tony stopped pacing and leaned across the table, hands planted like concrete struts against the metal. “I want you to tell me what you know about this guy.”
“I don’t know anything.” She couldn’t tell him what little she did know, couldn’t possibly. It wouldn’t be Ryker’s Island, if she did; it would be Bedlam. “His name is Alban Korund. He says he hasn’t killed anyone. He also said he’s been stalking me for three years. If anything, I’m more like a potential victim than a helper in this case. That’s all I know.” Who’s on first after sunset, Alban had said. What the hell did that mean? “Are you going to arrest me?”
“Don’t tempt me.” Tony straightened again. Margrit pushed back in her chair, feeling the faint strain in her thighs from keeping steady in the slanted seat.
“If you don’t arrest me, Tony, there’s nothing stopping me from walking out of here.”
“Except the fact that you yourself just said you’re a likely victim in this case.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Margrit stood up. “You don’t believe I’m your murderer, Tony, or even that I’m in cahoots with him. I swear to God, I never saw the guy before three days ago—”
“Sit!” Tony swung back to her, barking the order. Margrit set her teeth together and stayed on her feet. “How’d he get on your balcony?”
“The same damn way he got off it! He’s got pogo sticks in his shoes, I don’t know! Jesus, Tony! I didn’t invite him into the fucking house! Ask Cole and Cameron!”
“Your answers don’t match up, Margrit.”
“Yes, they fucking do.” Exhaustion swept over her, taking away the last adrenaline brought on by the near arrest, and leaving her tone flat and tired. “You watched him go bouncing over the goddamn building like some kind of blond Spider-Man, just like the rest of us did. I don’t know how the hell he did it, but if I was in it with him, wouldn’t I have gone with him? He keeps coming after me because he says he thinks I can help him. I swear to God I don’t know why he thinks that. I haven’t encouraged him. Who the hell tipped you off, anyway?”
Tony gave her a sullen look. “An anonymous caller, not that it matters, since I was three blocks away, anyway.”
“An anonymous caller. What a lucky break for you. You got to show up with the troops in tow instead of all alone to find your girlfriend two-timing you with a murderer. Jesus, Tony, is that what you think?”
He stared at her. “Is it what I should think?”
Margrit stared back, then flung her hands up. “For God’s sake. Yes, Tony. I’ve had two dozen boyfriends in the time we’ve been off. Why do you think we never stay together for more than a couple months? I get bored and start looking for new meat.” She dropped her arms, staring at him. “Is that what you want to hear? Does that make it all better somehow?”
Disbelief and betrayal warred for dominance in Tony’s eyes, and his color was high from emotion. Margrit groaned. “Don’t be an idiot, Anthony. Are you sure you want to try to make it work, if that’s how much you trust me?” So much for them not happening inside a police station. On the other hand, arguing about their personal lives was better than trying to explain the beautiful gargoyle who’d invaded Margrit’s world.
“I thought we weren’t talking about this here,” Tony said through gritted teeth.
Margrit flung her hands up again and threw herself into the chair with furious disregard, sending it scraping across the floor. As if the action were a cue, a tap sounded on the door and a cop looked in. “Her lawyer’s here.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Tony gestured and Russell entered, still dressed in the suit he’d worn that morning.
“Is Ms. Knight under arrest?”
Tony sighed, his expression unfriendly as he looked back and forth between Margrit and her boss. “No.”
“Then I think we have nothing more to do here. Margrit?”
She pushed her hair back and climbed to her feet again, making the motions as smooth and controlled as she could. “Thanks, Russell. Sorry about this.”
“It’s all right. Detective, excuse us.” Russell gestured to the still-open door, indicating tha
t Margrit should precede him.
“I think she should be under police protection.” Tony’s voice was jagged with the same weariness Margrit felt. She looked over her shoulder at Russell, who lifted his eyebrows, then turned to Tony when she shook her head fractionally.
“Ms. Knight doesn’t feel that’s necessary at this juncture. Thank you for your concern, Detective. Margrit,” he repeated. She nodded wearily, knocking her shoulder on the door frame as she cut too close.
“Margrit.” It was Tony this time. She exhaled slowly, wrapping her hand around her abused shoulder. His expression was neutral, but his words were testy. “Who’s Janx?”
Margrit’s shoulders sagged. “I have absolutely no fucking idea, Tony.” Russell’s hand at the small of her back guided her out of the station.
“Do you want to talk about what’s going on?” Russell didn’t speak until they got to the corner, well beyond the station. He lifted a hand to hail a cab, watching Margrit out of the corner of his eye.
“I barely know what’s going on. Thank you for coming down, Russell. I hope it’s not too awkward a position for you.”
“No, it was a good choice. But if this kind of thing is going to happen a lot…” He shot her a smile, causing a gurgle of laughter in Margrit’s throat.
“God, I hope not. I’ve just got this—this guy. My own personal stalker.” She sighed, then dragged in a deep breath, trying to rid herself of the impulse to sigh again. “The guy the cops think is killing people in the park.”
Russell lowered his hand and turned to face her, arms folded across his chest. “The cops think.”
“Yeah.” Margrit stared down the street, then shook her head. “Can we walk?” She started off down the sidewalk without waiting for an answer. “The cops think. I don’t think I buy it. Tony…This guy, his name’s Alban, showed up on my balcony, and Tony saw him there. He was threatening to stick me with being a co-conspirator, which is just bullshit, and I don’t know where it came from, except, I don’t know, jealousy. Which is bullshit, too. Excuse my French.”
“If this Alban needs a lawyer, Margrit…”
“It’s more complicated than that.” She glanced at her boss, shoving her hands into her jeans pockets. “More complicated than I can explain.”
Delicately, Russell said, “Are you involved with him?”
She barked laughter. “No. No, not at all.” The memory of Alban’s gaze, quiet and hopeful, rose in her mind and lingered. Margrit closed her eyes, trying to push it away, and thought instead of ivory skin sliding into dark denim. “It’s more like he’s an illegal immigrant and can’t trust anybody in authority,” she said through gritted teeth, and forced her eyes open to cut off the visual memory. “It’s complicated,” she repeated. “Look, I should just go home. Tony’s not going to pick me up again. If he really thinks I’m involved in something with Alban, he let me go so he could tail me and find out what I do. I cannot believe he’d think I’d be—” she struggled for a word and only came up with the one Russell had just used “—involved. With something like this.”
“Then cover your ass, Margrit.” Russell’s voice became darkened, his eyebrows drawing down. “Don’t see this Alban again. Stay with your friends and coworkers, with people who can provide alibis. Don’t throw your career away over this. We’ll be lucky if the papers don’t pick it up.”
Margrit groaned and tilted her head back, looking at the few visible stars that forced their way through the city lights. “I know. And what great timing, right when I’m on top of my game. I’ll watch myself, Russell. And I swear—” she held up her fingers in an oath “—if anything hinky happens I’ll call you immediately. I won’t let this get any worse.”
“Hinky.” Russell allowed himself a grin. “Did you really just say hinky?”
“I’ve had a traumatizing night. Give me a break.” She lifted her arm to hail a taxi as he nodded. A yellow cab careened toward her, and she felt her stomach tighten, trying not to leap backward.
Russell noticed the flinch and frowned.
“You’ll be all right getting home?”
“Yeah.” Margrit flashed a quick smile. “Got to get back on the horse sometime, right? I’ll be fine. You need a ride?”
“I’ll take the subway. Take care of yourself, Margrit.”
“Yeah.” She climbed into the cab, Russell thumping the top as he closed the door behind her. She slid down in the seat, grateful for the relative comfort of the cushions and the warmth of the vehicle. “Who’s on first after sunset. Janx. Jesus Christ, everybody’s lost their freaking minds.”
“You got it, lady.” The cab pulled away from the curb.
Margrit opened her eyes, frowning. “Got what?”
“Huo’s On First.” The cab driver cut a glance at her in the rearview mirror. “Ain’t that whatcha said?”
“Who’s on—what? What?” Margrit sat up straighter, goose bumps rising on her arms.
The cabbie eyed her. “Huo’s On First. It’s a bookstore down on First.” It was clear he wanted to add, “You dumb broad,” but he held his tongue, watching her in the mirror. “You wanna go there or not?”
“Yeah.” Her weariness slipped away and she leaned forward, gazing out the window. “Yeah, I do.”
THIRTEEN
THE DOORBELL JANGLED pleasantly when Margrit stopped inside the door, taking in a tiny, crowded store with towering shelves overloaded with books. The space had a sense of serenity that seemed impossible to dislodge, with the scent of old books mixing with the sweetness of tea. She turned back to look over her shoulder at the reversed letters on the door, proclaiming Huo’s On First: An Eclectic Bookshop, with hours that seemed extraordinarily late for a bookstore. A feeling of contentment settled over her, making her smile. The aura of bookstores, so calm and quiet, had the power to soothe her even after a day like the one that had passed. It was the same aura of sanctuary provided by churches, albeit with more reading material and considerably more comfortable chairs.
She ducked between stacks, hunching her shoulders to keep from brushing against shelves. A ladder leaned against a wall, its wide steps stacked precariously with paperbacks. Margrit picked one up, flipping through the pages as she tried not to elbow another stack of books to the floor. Used bookstores—at least the best of them—always seemed to be as crowded as this one was, as if walking around ran a distant second to the importance of the bound and printed pages.
“Insomniacs.” The voice came from above, making Margrit glance up, startled. A very small woman with black hair and blacker eyes peeped down from the top of a shelving unit. The set of her face was purposeful, fine lines carved around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Margrit took two steps back to better see her as she clambered over the top of the shelves and down the ladder, knocking off a stack of books as she passed them. Margrit snatched two out of the air, the other three raining to the floor with finality.
“Thank you.” The woman hopped down from the ladder, rescuing the fallen books and brushing dust off their covers with definitive motions. “You’re new here, aren’t you? Welcome to Huo’s On First. I’m Chelsea.” She offered her hand. “Chelsea Huo.” Her eyes crinkled with pleasure, and Margrit smiled as she shook it.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Huo. I’m Margrit Knight.”
“Chelsea.”
“Chelsea,” Margrit echoed obediently. Chelsea’s eyes crinkled again, her smile making wizened apple wrinkles in her round face. “Nice to meet you,” she repeated. “Insomniacs?”
“Are why the store is open so late. I get all sorts of sleepless customers, looking for the comfort of books, or sometimes for one dull enough to send them into slumber. They’re constants, aren’t they?” Chelsea asked cheerfully. “Books are. That’s why we like them so much. They seem immutable. They’re not, of course, not from the author’s first draft to the tenth printing, but they seem like it.” She leaned in confidentially. “And used bookstores like this one are always crowded because the books bree
d, you see.”
Margrit laughed, looking up at shelves tilting toward one another with the weight of volumes, and grinned. “I didn’t even know I’d said that out loud. It explains a lot, though.”
“Doesn’t it? Now, what can I do for you, Margrit? What are you looking for tonight?”
“I’m looking for—” Margrit cut the words off with a hard swallow. “I’m supposed to meet someone here. Tomorrow.”
Chelsea’s feather-fine eyebrows rose. “You’re a little early, then, aren’t you? Who are you meeting?”
“His name is Alban.” Margrit folded her arms around herself, glancing down an aisle between shelves. She felt, more than saw, stillness settle over Chelsea, and looked back at her curiously.
“Of course,” the tiny woman murmured. “You’re the runner in the park. The young lawyer. Peculiar that he should contact you, but—mmm. Well. How interesting.”
“You know him?” Margrit’s voice broke as she reached for Chelsea’s arm, at the last instant stopping herself from grabbing the other woman. “You actually know him? I mean, do you really know about him?” She almost laughed with frustration, trying to rein in frantic words. She sounded as if she was bordering on lunacy, even to herself. It took a moment to deliberately flex her fingers and move her hand back from Chelsea’s arm, pulling in a discreet breath as she did so. “Please,” she said in a calmer voice, “if you really know Alban, it’d be nice to have somebody tell me I’m not losing my mind.”
Chelsea Huo reached up and grabbed Margrit’s chin, pulling her down for examination. Margrit bit back a growl of protest at the proprietary action and let the tiny woman study her. Chelsea turned her face this way and that, as if inspecting her for flaws, and Margrit felt a growing sense of indignation rising in her. She wasn’t chattel to be declared worthy or inspected for salability.
On the other hand, the imperious little woman knew Alban. It was the first chance to validate what he’d told her, and putting Chelsea off might close the only avenue of information available to her. Margrit bit her teeth together, feeling her jaw clench under Chelsea’s fingers, and strove for a polite tone. “Please. I really don’t know what I’m up against here.”