by Jenna Ryan
“Wake up, Nikita.”
The voice reached out to her again. What a nice timbre. Hint of New Orleans in the accent Did all magicians have sexy sons? Maybe just the good ones did.
Her body floated upward. Her neck hurt on the right side. She mumbled groggily.
“Come on, Niki, snap out of it”
Her body shook slightly, enough to make her blink and try to focus. She lifted a weighted hand to her temple. “Where am I?”
“Who are you, Niki? Tell me your full name.”
“Nikita Tatiana Katarina Fedorova Sorensen.”
“Really?” He sounded impressed, albeit still concerned. It flattered her that he cared enough to be worried.
Reality hit in the next instant, like a glass of cold water in the face. She jumped in the arms that cradled her. “Someone attacked me, Vachon.” Orienting herself, she stared at him. “What are you doing here? How long have I been out? Where’s Donald?”
“Same Nikita,” he murmured, trapping her chin and examining her eyes in turn. “To answer your questions, I saw you heading into the cellar and decided to follow you. You were only out for about twenty seconds, and I haven’t seen Flynn since this morning. Is he supposed to be here?”
“Bang on his door. He’d better be here. He wanted me to come down and talk to him.”
Clearly Vachon was reluctant to release her. Even so. Nikita wished he would. To be this close to him, to inhale the uniquely male scent of his skin and hair was incredibly distracting. He smelled of soap and leather and…“Flowers!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I remember. I smelled flowers or perfume or something.” She thought back, frowning. “Or maybe it was medicinal. We use several natural products, herbs and other flowering plants, in our medications.”
“Flynn has a herb garden as well,” Vachon reminded her.
Because she wanted to stand, he helped her to her feet, then, when he believed she was steady, took the final five strides to Donald’s lab.
“Are you in there, Flynn? It’s the police.”
Seconds ticked by. Vachon was about to knock again when Nikita caught his arm. “I heard the bolt,” she said quietly.
So he was there, either afraid to respond because he knew she’d been knocked out, too daunted by Vachon to face him or guilty of attacking her and therefore unwilling to see them for fear of being exposed. No matter how she looked at it, Donald’s actions were extremely suspicious.
“We might as well leave,” she said five minutes later. “He won’t come out, and this cellar’s starting to give me the creeps.”
Unsatisfied, Vachon extracted a cell phone from his inside coat pocket and punched buttons. “Walter, send two uniforms to the west wing. I’ll meet them at the rear staircase behind the elevator. I want Donald Flynn’s laboratory watched. Post a third man at the outer lab door.”
Nikita put a hand to her aching neck and rubbed. “Isn’t that a lot of people to waste on guard duty?”
“With two women dead and two attacks on you? I wouldn’t call it a waste.” His eyes probed the area of skin she was rubbing. “Is that where he hit you?”
“Chopped me,” she corrected. “Yes.”
His fingers replaced hers, bringing a surge of heat to her skin and a dull cramp of longing to her lower abdomen. Against her better judgment, Nikita swayed into him. His body was warm and solid, sinewy like a cat or maybe a skier in his prime. It would be so easy, Nikita reflected with a shiver born of anticipation and pain, to forget her qualms and lead him to her apartment. They could light a fire, toast marshmallows and drink too much mulled wine. And maybe after that they’d decide to forget good sense and make wild, abandoned love on the rug by the hearth.
Footsteps shattered the picture in Nikita’s mind. She brought her head up from Vachon’s chest He’d heard the sound, too, a tread of rubber on marble.
“Cozy,” Sammy Slide noted with marked sarcasm. He stood in a patch of darkness ten feet to their left. “That’s some investigation you’re conducting there, Detective. I guess only women get frisked that way, huh?”
Nikita held her breath, but Vachon was not easily baited. Setting her aside, he offered the big orderly a deceptively lazy smile. “Does that mean you didn’t enjoy our chat at the station the other night?”
Sammy snorted. “You say chat, brother. I say police brutality.”
“Did he punch you?” Nikita asked.
“No, but he wanted to. Anyway, he was abusive.”
“He’ll be a lot more than that,” Vachon said pleasantly, strolling toward the wary man, “if he finds out you had anything to do with the attack five minutes ago on Dr. Sorensen.” He sniffed the dry cellar air as Sammy, no fool despite his bluster, retreated behind the stack of crates he’d been wheeling toward the elevator. “What kind of aftershave are you wearing, Slide? Smells like a marsh.”
Sammy’s expression grew belligerent “There was an accident upstairs. Someone knocked a disinfectant drum into a barrel of toilet bowl cleaner. Potpourri,” he added with a contemptuous curl of his lip. “And you can guess who Bright Eyes delegated to clean it up. ‘Get every last bit, Sammy,’ she ordered like some Kewpie doll dictator. They actually stood there and watched till I’d mopped up every drop.”
Vachon’s eyes came up, a dangerous sight. “They?”
Sammy stabbed a beefy fist upward. “Yeah, her hotshot hubby’s here, snapping his gum and his fingers. Guess he lost another court case, eh, Doc? Or maybe he just didn’t bother to show.”
If she’d been feeling more alert and if it had been anyone other than Sammy goading her, Nikita would have defended her brother. As it was, she merely shrugged. “Whatever. Where are you going with those medical supply crates?”
Sammy wrestled his disappointment back far enough to snarl disagreeably. “Upstairs. Dr. D.’s orders after the explosion.”
It was a reasonable precaution. Above all else, the medical stores should be protected.
With a subtle movement of his head, Vachon dismissed the orderly. Sammy grumbled but carried on toward the elevator.
“Everybody has a pat answer for everything, don’t they?” Nikita noted in his wake. “But somebody killed those women, Vachon. Somebody who’s very, very sick.”
“Or very smart, trying to fake very sick. Our killer left one body and disposed of the other.” He turned his considering gaze on her. “And tried to injure you twice.”
With a shiver, Nikita let him propel her up the staircase behind the elevator. Although she was still dizzy, climbing was infinitely preferable to riding an elevator with creepy Sammy.
On the main floor Vachon stopped to talk to two uniformed officers. Disinclined to listen, Nikita wandered away.
The central elevator transported both patients and supplies. There was a service elevator, as well, but the wiring hadn’t been installed properly, and consequently the thing only worked about half the time.
She saw the service shaft just beyond the kitchen pantry, a widemouthed box with all the charm of a coffin. She much preferred the original estate cage.
She was leaning against the wall, thinking about Vachon and the events of the past several days, when she glimpsed something in her peripheral vision—a movement, fast and silent If she’d blinked she would have missed it. But she hadn’t blinked, and of all people, she was not prone to hallucinations.
Curious, she started for the freezer, a tall, walk-in affair with a handle on both sides and a frosted-over window at the top. Before she reached it, she saw the handle turn and a woman slip out.
Verity? Puzzled, Nikita halted. Her friend’s body language suggested a furtiveness that was not like her. But why would Verity be sneaking around? And what on earth had she been doing inside the freezer?
“Bizarre,” Nikita breathed, her hand resting on the mushroom-toned wall.
“What’s bizarre?” Vachon asked.
“Nothing,” she denied hastily. Then, because he’d helped her downstairs, she continued grudgingly. “Well—I saw some
one just now, coming out of the freezer. It was Verity.” She answered the question in his eyes. “And I think there might have been someone before her—unless it was old Finnigan from the kitchen.”
Vachon’s dark brows came together. “There were people in the freezer?”
“I only saw one,” she said. “And no, I’m not seeing things. I never see things that aren’t there.”
A small smile played on his lips. “You’ve obviously never been around a magician before.” He nodded. “Shall we look?”
“At what? There won’t be anybody else inside. It isn’t a coffee lounge, you know.”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “You’re a stubborn creature, aren’t you, Nikita?” Grinning, he dropped an unexpected kiss on her mouth. “Stubborn and beautiful.”
Nikita’s mind went uncharacteristically blank. She must have been hit harder than she realized in the basement.
Taking a deep breath, she walked to the freezer and twisted the metal handle. The light was on. That was unusual. “This is pointless, Vachon,” she insisted even as she tried to rationalize Verity’s presence here. “There’s only meat inside. Look for yourself.”
Opening the heavy door, she gestured across the threshold. Her eyes picked out twin slashes of red and black amid hanging slabs. She halted abruptly.
Black sweater, red wool coat. She recalled the corpse in her trunk and felt the blood drain from her cheeks. They’d found Patti Warnecki’s body at last.
WHAT A FANTASTIC rush, to watch someone discover a corpse. Especially, thought the murderer, when you’d made that corpse out of a living, breathing human being. Master of the dance of life, that’s what a killer really was. Master, controller, snipper of life’s tenuous threads.
But the moment for watching was past. Mustn’t linger and risk detection. Keep moving, mingle a little, just a little, mind you, not too much. Better to vanish for a while. Let the police untie Patti’s body. Let them dissect her, make their cryptic discoveries. Drugs again. A stab wound in the throat. And what about that broken finger? And the hair? Most puzzling.
The murderer melted into the shadows of the lower corridors. Everyone and no one saw. Absolutely no one knew. Wasn’t that the beauty of such a macabre secret, that the bearer of it could gloat in private yet continue to come and go as if the whole affair were a complete mystery?
A skinny young man with black hair and thick glasses scuttled past, head bent. Orderly Tom Pratt, a pointless puppet who probably thought no one knew a damned thing about him.
“Excuse me, Tom?”
The man’s head jerked up. He stopped and turned. “Are you talking to me?”
Was there another Tom in the vicinity? The murderer smiled and started toward him. Tom watched uncertainly. What did he think there was to fear in the middle of an open hallway? Now behind storeroom doors…
The murderer faltered, then stopped. It was too soon. Let him go. Nikita might, likely would, have to be dealt with first. Mustn’t clutter the old estate with too many dead bodies.
Tom blinked owlishly. “Never mind,” said the murderer with the suggestion of a scowl. “I have to go.”
Clearly Tom didn’t understand. He stood there like a dolt, staring while the murderer did an about-face and headed for the central staircase.
Idiots didn’t matter. Tom’s time would come. Best to carry on as usual until the furor in the freezer died down. And then…The murderer smiled wickedly at the thought. Oh, yes, Nikita Sorensen. And then…
VACHON SLANTED a canny look at Manny, who was sprawled in a kitchen chair in his partner’s comfortably messy Boston condo. “When did you arrive at the hospital?”
Manny shrugged. “I don’t know. After you. Someone told me you’d gone off hunting for Nikita.”
“I followed her into the cellar.”
“Nice for you. I had to suffer an attack of sinusitis when some klutz dumped a couple of cleaning barrels and stunk up the whole second floor. By the way, did you know they don’t use the third floor of the west wing?”
“Does it matter?” Vachon searched through his fridge and finally located some bacon.
“My grandfather told me that a visitor to the manor was murdered on the third floor back in the late eighteen hundreds. The killer was never apprehended.”
“What are you saying, that a ghost is drugging people and sticking holes in their throats? Not to mention breaking their right forefingers and tying strands of hair around the snapped joint?”
Manny doodled idly on the phone book cover. Doodled with his left hand, Vachon noticed grimly. Unwrapping the bacon, he cut it into a frying pan using a pair of scissors.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Manny said in a preoccupied tone. “I just think it’s interesting, is all. Sherman Drake must be a superstitious old codger.”
The buzzer sounded, and at a nod from Vachon, Manny went to answer it Left-handed doodling; left-handed karate chop used on Nikita. She’d said as much herself, although he doubted she remembered that. The proof of it was in the blow struck from in front of her to the right side of her neck.
Manny returned a few minutes later with a surprise that brought a smile to Vachon’s lips.
“We were in the neighborhood,” Adeline Sorensen revealed, eyes twinkling. “Thought we’d pop in and pay our respects.”
“We” included Deana’s father, sporting his customary wool cap and walking stick. The cold outside had reddened his nose and cheeks and, in his words, “Caused my arthritis to throw a nasty tantrum.”
“Coffee?” Vachon asked while Adeline poked unashamedly around his wood and tile kitchen.
“Love some,” she said and tore dead leaves from his Boston fern. “I hear you helped my granddaughter again today, Vachon. She won’t love you for it, you know.”
He kept his expression straight. “I didn’t think she would.”
“Well, just so you’re aware. She’s independent, is my Niki. Headstrong, too.”
“Amen to that,” Dean Hawthorne agreed. “Poor Andrew—that’s Niki’s father. He had little control over her as a child.”
Manny’s lip jutted. “You think control’s important, do you, Mr. Hawthorne?”
“To a point, yes,” Dean replied. His eyes on Manny were less than amiable. “Tell me, Detective, is it true that another young woman has been found dead at Beldon-Drake?”
“Patti Warneckie,” Vachon confirmed. He washed his hands and reached for a jar of instant coffee. “You look windblown, Adeline.”
Dean thawed sufficiently to ruffle the old woman’s disheveled white hair and give it a teasing pull. “We’ve been shopping for tomorrow night’s dinner,” he confessed. “Adeline wants to set the proper mood.”
“It’s called ambience.” Adeline smacked at his arthritic hand and shuffled over to inspect the kitchen sink. “I’m more interested in hearing about this Patti person. She was an outpatient, wasn’t she?”
Vachon nodded. “She went in for a session last night. We found her dead this morn—afternoon.”
Manny regarded Dean evenly. “Be honest, Vachon. We discovered her body in the hospital freezer. Before that she was apparently stuffed inside Nikita’s car trunk.”
“Not nice for Niki,” Adeline commented. “How did she die?”
“Stabbed,” Vachon told her.
“Drugged, too?”
“You get around, don’t you?”
“Time of death?”
“Between eight last night and three this morning.”
“That’s a broad range,” Dean remarked in disapproval.
“Her body was frozen,” Manny reminded him. His gaze shifted, became somberly inquisitive. “As a matter of interest, Mr. Hawthorne, can you use your hands at all? Can you pick up eating utensils, for instance? Pens? Coat hangers?”
Dean wiggled his twisted fingers. “Could I manipulate a syringe?” he countered with perfect comprehension. “Possibly, but it would be extremely awkward. Are you accusing me of something, Detective?”
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br /> “No, he isn’t,” Adeline answered, peering into one of Vachon’s pine cupboards. “We’re saving all of that until tomorrow night. You have very little food here, Vachon. Why don’t you toss the burned bacon and call Nikita? She makes a dandy late-night omelet, and I happen to know she’s staying in tonight.”
Vachon managed not to laugh at her deliberate matchmaking. Overt or not, the idea tempted more than he cared to admit. Niki, a fire, maybe a chocolate fondue, a little cognac and…He shoved the image away and leaned indolently against the counter, waiting for the water to boil.
“It’s after nine, Adeline,” he said wryly. “Isn’t that a bit late to be paying a call on your granddaughter?”
She turned to him. He was surprised to see a measure of uneasiness—in anyone else, he’d have called it fear—dimming her otherwise bright blue eyes. “Late is a relative term, Vachon. It’s certainly too late to pay a call on Laverne Fox and Patti Warneckie, both of whom—” her gaze fastened steadfastly on his “—were murdered after nine o’clock.”
Chapter Twelve
Nine forty-two.
Nikita knocked on Deana’s office door, then stuck her head inside. “Dee?”
The room was dark, but soft strains of music played on the stereo. Enya Prayerful Irish. She heard a clink of ice on crystal and glanced at the couch. She recognized the silhouette instantly.
“Well, hello, stranger.” She left the lights off and went to perch on the corner of Deana’s desk. “Have you been around here all afternoon and night?”
She heard him swallow. His answer was mellowed by at least three glasses of Scotch. “Here, gone and here again. I just got back ten minutes ago. I split when the brouhaha broke out around the freezer.”
“You would. Where’s Dee?”
He drank again. “You tell me. She’s not at home or in her cubbyhole here. Last anyone told me, she booked off.”
“Try her pager.”
“I did. She’s not answering. I think she’s fooling around.”
Nikita tried to be impartial. “It isn’t in her nature, Martin, but if it were, you’d deserve it Faithful is hardly your middle name.”