Micki’s stomach lurched at the thought, and she refocused on the facts. “So what’re they thinking—that he took a swan dive on his own? Or that he was helped over the side?”
“No clue,” he answered. “Frankly, my guess is they’re waiting for us to tell them.”
Meaning they were waiting for Zach to tell them. He was the super hero. She was his gun-wielding, often cranky sidekick.
“We’re getting pulled in,” he went on. “Your call should be coming in any moment.”
As if on cue, another call beeped through. “There it is,” she said. “Wait, how’d you hear before me?”
“P.”
Parker. Figured, she thought. Parker was Zach’s FBI point man—and his uncle. But that was a whole other can of worms.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she said and clicked through to the other call.
Chapter Three
11:20 P.M.
Micki spotted Zach immediately. Tall, blond and a disconcerting cross between Chris Pratt and a young Matthew McConaughey, he looked out of place in the chaos of a crime scene, more a beach-and-surfboard than gun-and-badge kind of guy.
He saw her, lifted a hand in greeting and pointed to the parking spot he’d saved her between two piece-of-shit unmarked cruisers. Then came the smile that had melted hearts from coast-to-coast. It did a pretty good job on hers, but no way in hell she was ever going to let him know that.
A Mardi Gras parade-sized crowd had gathered around the scene’s outer perimeter. And like a parade-going throng, the atmosphere was one of revelry and anticipation.
Micki wedged the Nova into the within-spitting-distance-of-a-bunch-of-drunken-idiots spot. She frowned as she cut the engine. It deserved better. But that’s what happened when you were last to the party—you scored the crappy parking spot.
She climbed out of the car; the crowd roared. Like she was a freaking celebrity on the red carpet. Typical Big Easy—every event was the opportunity for a party.
Laissez les bon temps rouler, baby.
“Yo,” she called to one of the cops policing the line. He looked her way and she pointed to the Nova. “That’s my baby. So much as a spilled drink touches her, I freakin’ lose it. Got that?”
He looked appropriately concerned, and Zach chuckled as he fell into step with her. “Poor guy had no idea what was coming for him.”
She angled him a questioning glance. “What?”
“Classic Mad Dog Dare, take no prisoners.”
“Whatever it takes, Hollywood. Bet nobody messes with my car.”
He didn’t argue. Lifting her gaze, Micki took in Thomas King’s 2 River Tower. King’s redesign of the original New Orleans Trade Mart incorporated current design sensibilities with the post-modern style of the original, and the result was spectacular.
Thirty-three floors of pure luxury, revolving restaurant and bar at the top; two floors down, an observation deck; on the main floor, another restaurant, coffee shop and jazz club.
Zach leaned toward her. “I hear the apartments start at a million and a half bucks.”
They reached the inner perimeter. The still-wet-behind-the-ears scene officer checked their credentials, then held out the log.
“Where’s the vic?” Micki asked, signing it.
The officer grimaced. “Where isn’t he?”
The image of Wile E. Coyote running afoul of one of his own plans filled her head.
Ker . . . splat!
In real life, not funny. And not something anyone should have to see. Unfortunately, ugly came with the job. And this was going to be real ugly.
The officer glanced at the log, then back up at Zach. “You’re Hollywood Harris, aren’t you?”
Here we go, she thought. The obligatory “fan boy” moment.
“The one-and-only,” Zach answered, pretending he didn’t see her eye roll. He held out his hand and flashed the kid one of his thousand-watt knee-bucklers. “Good to meet you—”
“Ray,” the officer offered, taking Zach’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “I’m a big fan, Detective. It’s an honor, really. The way you called that home invasion was nothing short of—”
“Miraculous?” Micki offered.
Her sarcasm rolled right past him. He beamed, pumped Zach’s hand some more. “Yeah, that’s it. Miraculous.”
“Appreciate the love,” Zach said. “But I couldn’t do it without Dare here.”
Trusty, skull-crushing, often cranky sidekick. She sort of wanted to puke. Instead she re-directed the rookie. “The vic? Which way?”
“Right,” Jones said, looking sheepish. “Grab some booties and gloves, follow the lighted path around back.”
“Nice guy,” Zach said. “Great judge of talent.”
Micki snorted and tucked the gloves in one pocket, booties in the other. “You’re beginning to like that a little too much.”
“Sour grapes?”
“Not at all, partner. Just keeping it real.”
They followed the path around to the back side of the building, which faced the river. The noise level dropped dramatically as they made the turn and ducked under the barrier. On the river, a tug boat pushed a barge silently past. The entire area had been cordoned off, but only a small cluster of official personnel remained—one of them New Orleans Chief of Police Howard, another Major Nichols.
Micki swept her gaze over the area. Terraced verandas, graceful and welcoming. Landscape lighting and strands of tiny, white lights, twinkling like stars, creating a little piece of heaven on earth.
The scene lights had not yet been set up, so she couldn’t be certain, but she suspected that the odd, dark shape on the lowest terrace might be what was left of the unfortunate Mr. King.
So much for heaven on earth.
Micki glanced at Zach. He stood intently still, head tipped back, attempting, she knew, to absorb the moments of King’s fall. No, not the moments of the fall, the psychic energy surrounding them. And with the energy, maybe answers.
Another of his gifts. In comparison, her good, old-fashioned police work seemed kind of boring.
She touched Zach’s arm; he didn’t break concentration to look at her, but then, she hadn’t expected him to. “Make the magic happen, partner. I’ll keep Major Nichols and the Chief away.”
She headed toward her superior officers, aware of Zach heading in the opposite direction.
The two men met her half way. The chief spoke first.
“Thank God you and Harris are here. We’ve got ourselves a big mess.”
He must have realized how that sounded, considering what awaited on the lowest terrace, because he made a face before motioning toward Zach. “I assume he’s—” he paused, searching for the right description, before settling on, “—doing his thing?”
His thing. An appropriate euphemism for something the Chief had absolutely no clue how to describe but was convinced he understood. So “his thing” pretty much covered it.
And didn’t cover it at all.
Because what the Chief didn’t know, or even the FBI, was that Zach was much more than a Sixer. He was part Lightkeeper, an ancient race sent to earth to battle the forces of darkness.
It had taken her a long time to wrap her head around that one. But she believed now, and God help her, she had agreed to join them.
And ironically, in the process she’d learned she had a teeny bit of Lightkeeper in her, too. Unfortunately, not enough to give her any cool, superhero abilities.
“Yes, sir,” she answered. “Bring me up to speed on what we know so far.”
Major Nichols stepped in. “At this point it appears to be a suicide.”
Micki pictured the perpetually tanned, semi-celebrity braggart she knew from the media, and shook her head. “That would not have been my first guess.”
Howard ran a hand through his thinning hair, a rare move from the tightly controlled chief of police. “Before the incident, he was in the ballroom, mingling with guests.”
“His mood
?” she asked.
“Jovial. Upbeat. I talked to him myself.” Chief motioned toward the building. “How could it not have been?”
Exactly. “So what happened?”
“His wife said he needed something from upstairs. She offered to get it for him, but he insisted on doing it himself.”
“What was it?”
“She didn’t know. He didn’t say.”
Micki frowned. She looked from one man to the other. “The middle of a party, an important gathering, the host tells his wife he forgot something and has to retrieve it, and she doesn’t ask what?”
“Maybe she was having a good time and didn’t care? Maybe this was something he did?” He shrugged. “Who knows?”
“What about a suicide note?”
Chief Howard shook his head. “Not that the first officers saw.”
She looked at him, surprised. “You haven’t personally inspected the scene?”
“No. I thought I should help maintain calm in the ballroom.”
“And we’re sure he was alone?”
“We’re not sure of anything yet. When the officers arrived, the apartment was locked, but the door has an automatic lock system.”
“What about his wife?”
“Downstairs the whole time. She was one of—” He cleared his throat. “—the witnesses.”
“Witnesses?”
“To the fall. My wife . . . she—” He stopped, helplessness in his voice. “She was there, too.”
Micki glanced up at the building. The ballroom would have a wall of windows to exploit that million-dollar view. “Are you saying that your wife and Mrs. King actually saw—”
“Along with about two dozen others, yes.”
That explained the helplessness, the uncharacteristic show of emotion. “Thank you for your confidence in us, Chief. We won’t let you down.”
His expression cleared, and he nodded, all traces of emotionalism gone. He shifted his gaze from her to Major Nichols. “I want you here overseeing everything. Whatever Harris needs, give it to him. The press is going to want something sooner than later. Hourly reports. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” they answered in unison.
He walked away. Micki turned back to her superior officer. “No one else enters King’s apartment until after Harris has gone through it.”
“I’ll see to it.”
She started for the lower terrace, now illuminated by six-hundred-watt scene lights, then stopped and looked back. “We’ll need to talk to housekeeping and security, make certain they don’t leave before we do. Both would have had access to King’s apartment.”
He agreed, and she went on, “Do you know, did the Kings have any children?”
“I don’t,” Nichols said. “I’ll find out and if they do, make certain they—and any other family members on the property tonight—are available to you and Harris.”
“Perfect.” Micki started off, then stopped and looked back once more. “Oh, and I want security footage, from both the elevators and the twenty-first floor.”
When he nodded, she went to get a look at what was left of Thomas King.
Chapter Four
11:55 P.M.
Zach stood just outside the glare of the scene lights. He turned toward the tower, lifted his face and closed his eyes. Bracing himself, he opened his senses to the energy. Pinpricks of electricity rippled over him, up and down his arms, legs and torso. He twitched and jerked, the pinpricks becoming strikes, battering him with the force of an electrical storm.
Zach fought to control his breathing and heart rate. Deep, even. Keep the ship righted. The storm slowed, becoming gusts and bursts, with moments of intensity followed by vacuum-like voids that felt as if they could strip the flesh from his bones.
He struggled to decipher and dissect the chaos—colors, flashes of light, voices and music, spinning like a runaway carousel. Faster and faster, creating a brilliant blur. Then, a face. A woman’s. Beautiful, with mysterious, amber eyes. She seemed to be beckoning. Not to King, Zach realized. Him. She was beckoning him.
And then . . . nothing. So suddenly, Zach’s eyes popped open and his legs buckled. He dropped to his knees.
“Zach!”
Mick. Rushing toward him.
He held up a hand to stop her and focused on his breathing—deeply in, slowly out. Again and again. His tilt-a-whirl world slowed, then stopped. He shuddered, the last ripple of energy like a wave retreating from the shore to the ocean, then gone.
He looked at her, taking in her concerned expression, then forced a tight smile. “Well, that was fun.”
“Are you all right?”
He cautiously stood, then shot her a rueful glance. “I’m standing, aren’t I?”
“You get anything?”
“Depends on your point of view. I think I got everything.” He realized his hands were trembling and balled them into fists. “And nothing.”
She frowned slightly, in that way she did. More a furrowing of her brow, always the serious technician, analyzing. “Meaning?”
“There’s too much here. I couldn’t single any one thing out, but . . .”
Her frown deepened. “But what?”
“A woman’s face. At the last moment. Then it all stopped with a . . . crash.”
“The moment he hit the ground?”
“That makes sense . . . It’s how it felt, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Did you recognize her?”
He pictured the woman. A sultry kind of beauty. Those amazing eyes. High cheekbones. Somehow familiar but . . . not. Who was she? And what did she want with him?
“Zach? Did you? Recognize her?”
He shook his head slightly. “No. But . . .” He turned and looked Mick in the eyes. “She did seem familiar, though I have no idea where from.”
“The media maybe?”
“Maybe. But it was more like . . . she recognized me.”
“Recognized you? How so?”
“Like she motioned me to follow her. Like she was aware of my presence.” Zach turned his gaze to what remained of the developer, which was nothing recognizable. Even his clothing had burst with the force of impact.
“Is it always like this?” he asked, the taste in his mouth turning metallic.
“When somebody jumps?” He nodded, and she shook her head. “It’s different every time. I’ve seen jumpers who look hardly the worse for wear after impact. This one’s particularly bad. Twenty-one floors is a long way down.”
Something in the muck caught Zach’s eye. He picked his way to it and bent to get a closer look. King’s gold Rolex, completely intact, diamond bezel winking up at him.
Mick followed him, peered over his shoulder. “Un-fucking-believable,” she said.
Zach cocked his head, focusing on the dial. “What time is it now?”
“Eleven-fifty-six.”
“It’s still keeping time.”
Micki made a choked sound. “Hell of a product testimonial. Rolex, it keeps time even if yours runs out. You need to examine it?”
He thought a moment, then shook his head. “I think I’ve gotten everything I can get, at least from down here. I need to get inside King’s apartment.”
The crime scene techs stood at the edge of the terrace, waiting for him and Mick to finish. They were outfitted in head-to-toe hazmat. Zach didn’t have to touch them to read their thoughts—this was not their lucky night. He sent them a sympathetic glance.
“It’s all yours,” Mick said as they reached them. “Let me know if you find anything that might indicate this wasn’t a suicide.”
“Any ideas on that, Detective?”
The tech sounded incredulous. She stopped, looked back. “Other than a bullet or two, your guess is as good as mine. His phone’s here somewhere. Watch is on the right, near one of his shoes. Have a ball with that, fellas.”
“Screw you, Detective.” He said it good-naturedly. “Look for my report in the morning.”
They turned back
and started toward the building’s entrance.
“What did she look like?” Mick asked suddenly.
“Who?”
“The woman you saw.”
“Dark hair, mysterious-looking. Beautiful.”
“Rich guy, beautiful woman. Figures. You think she helped him over the edge?”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I got the feeling that like me, she was just a bystander.”
Chapter Five
12:25 A.M.
Zach stood in the apartment doorway. King had lived like, well, a king. The entry opened to an expansive, luxuriously modern interior. The opposite wall, composed of floor-to-ceiling windows, faced the Mississippi River. Beyond the windows, a balcony. The doors to the balcony stood open, the filmy, white drapes billowing in the cold, damp breeze.
Mick had learned a few details about the evening, but at his request, hadn’t yet shared them. He didn’t want his reading of the scene to be influenced by any so-called facts.
The only thoughts he was interested in were King’s.
Zach took a step into the apartment. He felt the familiar tingle at his wrists and inside of his elbows. He breathed deeply, relaxed and let it flow over him. Every human action left a trail of psychic energy, imperceptible to nearly everyone.
But not to him. He had been sensitive to it all his life, but since being recruited by the Sixers, he had learned to exploit that sensitivity and use it to solve crimes.
The stronger the emotion surrounding the event, the stronger the energy—and the easier to read. However, he’d learned that every crime scene read differently—even homicide to homicide, burglary to burglary. Because whenever humans were involved, emotions were involved. And no two humans reacted in exactly the same way to a situation.
Even those not wholly human—like him.
Sometimes it was the victim’s energy that roared the loudest, sometimes the perpetrator’s, and other times—like on the gore-soaked terrace twenty floors below—everyone’s had been clamoring for attention—the party guests, the raucous street crowd, even the media and assembled law enforcement officers.
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