Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  Celine caught the strong whiff that emanated from the large Starbucks cup in her hand—peppermint mocha?

  The same flavor she’d been craving. A mere coincidence, or—?

  Before she could ponder its significance, her eyes were drawn back up to the second-floor landing. A male figure stood above her, his eyes boring into the woman who’d just flown past. He moved adroitly aside as Blake barreled toward him.

  God, what was Blake doing? Hadn’t he seen the guy?

  Celine was about to call out a warning when she recognized the tall, muscular figure looming over them.

  Reynolds.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  He stood, feet riveted to the landing, shaking his fist, his mouth open in a ferocious scream, the words so loud they could wake the dead. Celine pressed her hands to her ears, envying the others for their ability to ignore the ruckus.

  You bitch! You coldhearted, f—in’ bitch!

  His cold, green eyes landed on Celine’s face.

  Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Do something! he bellowed.

  Do what? she asked, struggling to understand.

  Follow that woman. She’s stealing from me.

  Follow her yourself, she was tempted to say, but she bit back the words, asking instead: “What’s she stolen?”

  She must have spoken aloud because Julia grabbed her arm. “What’s going on, Celine?”

  “Celine?” Blake pivoted around, alarmed.

  “Shhh,” she hissed, trying to concentrate her psychic hearing on Reynolds’s voice. “It’s Reynolds.”

  His shoulders sagged, his energy apparently ebbing away.

  Nothing yet, but that’s not the point. It’s the intent. You need to follow her.

  Follow her.

  His voice reverberated in her ear even as his form faded away.

  “You can see Reynolds?” Jonah’s squeak startled her. He was staring at her slack-jawed. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “I wish I were.” She turned to Blake and Julia. “We need to go after that woman. She was in Reynolds’ apartment.”

  “That’s not possible.” Blake was instantly dismissive. “There’s an officer stationed outside his door. Has been this entire time. You’re telling me she got past him?”

  Follow her. Follow her. Follow her.

  Reynolds’ nervous energy was beginning to infect her.

  “She managed to get in.” Celine turned to Julia, desperate. “I don’t know how. But we need to go after her. He’s insisting we do.”

  Blake briefly twisted his head. Reynolds’ apartment was on the third floor; they had a couple more flights to climb. Celine saw him wavering, irresolute. A range of emotions flickered across his face—irritation mingling with reluctant belief and skepticism—as he stared at her.

  Eventually confusion won out.

  “I need something more than a dead guy’s word, Celine.” His eyes sought Julia’s. “I have nothing close to resembling reasonable suspicion. I can’t just follow her; stop her—that’s—”

  “I’m afraid he’s right.” Julia made a wry face at Celine. “Isn’t there anything more concrete you can give us?”

  Nothing more concrete than the sound of Reynolds’ voice echoing in her head.

  Your thinking cap, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine said softly. Did you leave it on the airplane?

  No, dammit. Why couldn’t anything be easy?

  “We need a pretext.” Celine was thinking out loud.

  Her gaze swept over Blake and Julia and then came to rest upon Jonah.

  “You’re a reporter,” she murmured. “For a major art newspaper.”

  Wispy impressions shot through her mind, coalescing into an idea.

  “A feature about the life of our dead sculptor might be in order.”

  Jonah’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Have you noticed how it’s never harassment when a reporter badgers you with questions—however nosy or inappropriate?”

  The penny dropped. “You want me to go after her?” He emphasized the pronouns, drawing them out to showcase his utter incredulity.

  “Yes, why don’t you?” Julia urged, face wreathed in smiles. With her white hair and the crinkles around her blue eyes, she looked like a mildly pushy grandma urging her grandson to go on a date. “She could be a neighbor for all we know. Here’s your chance to be a part of the story, to find out a little more than Blake here might be willing to let out.”

  “Sounds like a fantastic idea!” Blake was positively beaming at the reporter.

  Jonah’s eyes narrowed even further behind his round, wire-rimmed spectacles. “I know what you guys are up to. You’re just trying to get rid of me.”

  “No, Jonah,” Blake said. “We’re giving you a chance to be part of the team, trusting you to do a little detective work on your own.”

  Jonah studied Blake’s features like a merchant inspecting a potentially counterfeit bill. “Fine,” he eventually said. “But if I scratch your back, you have to scratch mine.”

  It wasn’t an analogy Blake appreciated, Celine could see that. But he got the message. “You help us, and I’ll share whatever information I can without compromising the case.”

  “You’d better hurry.” Celine pressed her palm flat against Jonah’s skinny chest, giving him a little shove, as the faint echoes of Reynolds’ voice resonated in her head again.

  “Thanks,” she added as he began sprinting down.

  “No worries.” He looked over his shoulder, giving her a wolfish grin. “I’ll say this for her—she was goddamned hot for an older woman.”

  He disappeared from view, Blake craning his neck after him to make sure the reporter was headed down.

  “Alright, looks like we’re finally rid of nosy Nancy.” His smile widened as he looked over at Celine. “That was good thinking on your part.”

  “Just using my thinking cap,” she responded as they resumed the trek upward. “What I don’t understand is why Reynolds couldn’t have followed her himself.”

  “He must’ve realized there’d be no point. The man’s dead, after all,” Julia reminded Celine, effortlessly overtaking her on their way up. “Not much he can do stalking her.”

  “Yes, I know, but”—Celine splayed her fingers through her hair; the long flight had made it sticky and lank—“he was just standing there, as though he’d taken root.”

  His anger’s chaining him down, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine told her. He’ll be tied to the scene of his death until he grants himself permission to move on.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Reaching the third-floor landing, Blake rounded the corner—and stopped short.

  An officer was guarding Reynolds’ door—just as Soldi had promised. But he was planted on a wooden seat, his mouth open, head lolling back, sawing logs.

  Un-f—in’-believable!

  “I thought caffeine helped you stay awake.”

  Blake turned to see the corners of Julia’s blue eyes crinkling in amusement as she surveyed the scene: the chubby, young Cambridge Department patrol officer slumped at his post outside Reynolds’ third-floor apartment. A Starbucks cup of coffee tilting limply from his hands, its contents sloshing out onto his uniform.

  The air reeked of coffee. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, Celine was sniffing at the aroma, brow wrinkled, nose upturned.

  “Peppermint mocha,” she murmured. “Again. It’s connected. But how?”

  Blake had no idea what she was talking about. Why was the flavor of coffee significant? Biting back an irritable retort, he turned to the young officer. And, beyond furious by now, prodded him in the ribs.

  “Cowan!” he trumpeted, using the name on the man’s nametag. “Wake up, man!”

  Had he been alone, he would’ve added a few choice four-letter words. But acutely aware of the two women present, he restrained himself.

  Cowan’s only response was a series of stuttering gasps that ended in a low snort. His head loll
ed forward, chin rolling from his shoulder to his chest.

  Blake grabbed his shoulder and shook him forcefully.

  Godf—indammit! What was the matter with the pimply-faced bozo? Shit-for-brains! Asleep on the job—

  Dear God, had he been venting out loud?

  Celine was looking at him as though he’d just walloped her with a baseball bat. He’d seen the same expression on a girlfriend of his—the relationship had been short-lived—when he’d let forth a stream of foul language in her presence.

  Nothing to do with her; he’d been angry about something else, but apparently venting your fury in your own home was uncalled for. A torrent of expletives was as unacceptable as raining blows on a harmless object.

  But he’d learned his lesson. Women overreacted to that kind of thing. Nothing you could do about it but apologize. He did so now.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, wishing Celine would stop staring at him like that. She looked totally shell-shocked.

  “What’re you apologizing for?” Julia’s eyes swiveled from his face to Celine’s. She was clearly more used to profanity than her young friend if she had no idea why he was apologizing.

  He was about to explain when Celine’s mouth widened into the kind of smile—accepting, compassionate, and forgiving—that he’d only seen on images of the Virgin Mary.

  “There’s no need to apologize for your thoughts,” she said. She emphasized the word, confirming that he’d kept his ravings to himself. “They’re in your head; no one can hear them.”

  Thank God for small mercies. He was embarrassed enough as it stood.

  “The only reason I heard them was because of the energy with which your mind expelled them. I’ve never seen you this angry before.”

  “Sorry,” he said again. He didn’t want her intimidated by him.

  “No, it’s okay. Really. But”—she turned back to the sleeping beauty in uniform—“it’s not Cowan’s fault.” She pointed to the Starbucks cup in the cop’s hands. It was tilting forward now.

  She plucked it from Cowan’s sluggish hold before he could slosh any more of its contents. “I think he might’ve been drugged.”

  “Drugged?” Blake had no idea what she was talking about. But apparently Julia—quicker on the uptake—did.

  “By our mystery woman?” she asked, her tone somber. She shot him a worried glance.

  The look on his former colleague’s face alarmed Blake. Mystery woman? Did she mean the woman who’d passed them on the stairs? God, he hoped not!

  Pinpricks of tension pierced the back of his neck; his collar felt unusually constricting. He looked toward Celine, hoping she’d deny the link. But this clearly wasn’t his day.

  “I’m afraid so,” Celine said.

  Jesus Christ! Blake slapped his hand against his forehead. It was yet another thing he hadn’t foreseen. SAC Walsh would have a field day with that.

  “It’s hard to believe, I know.” Celine was sympathetic. “She seemed harmless enough. I can’t say I detected any strong negative energy as she passed us. No malevolent vibes, nothing sinister.”

  Her words didn’t ease his sense of culpability. As an investigator, Blake was trained to be suspicious, to look out for—if not to expect—the worst. And he’d failed to anticipate this. Just as he’d failed to anticipate Grayson Pike’s murder four months ago. Damn!

  “She didn’t even act nervous or guilty,” Celine went on.

  “Hardened criminals rarely do,” Julia pointed out dryly.

  A fact Blake should’ve remembered when he’d first caught sight of the woman. Instead, he’d balked at following her. Cursing himself, he pulled out his phone.

  They needed to get a handle on this thing.

  “Let’s hope Hibbert’s managed to catch up to her.” He punched a few buttons on his iPhone and pressed the device to his ear. Hibbert answered on the first ring.

  “Any luck?”

  Blake listened intently. “Damn.” She’d left. That wasn’t good news.

  His gaze shifted to the cup in Celine’s hand. “Listen—”

  But Jonah was way ahead of him. Good for him!

  “You’re headed to the Starbucks on Allston? Great!”

  Maybe one of the baristas would remember serving the woman. If nothing else, they had a chance of getting her name—assuming she’d been careless enough to provide it.

  That coupled with her appearance—which they’d all noted—and the silver Mercedes Benz Jonah had seen her driving off in could be all they needed to track her down.

  He disconnected, still clutching the phone in his hands.

  “Gone, I take it,” Julia guessed.

  He nodded.

  “At least, she didn’t take anything. Right?” He heard her ask Celine. The younger woman’s murmured assent was reassuring.

  He scrolled through his contacts. Cambridge PD and Soldi were his next calls.

  “Sorry, this needs to be handled before we can go in,” he said as Julia turned toward him.

  He wanted Cowan sent to Urgent Care and crime scene techs to take charge of the coffee cup. They needed to confirm it had been drugged.

  They also needed a better plan to secure the place. The initial walkthrough of the apartment had yielded nothing of interest. Blake had surmised the killer had found what he was looking for.

  Clearly that wasn’t the case.

  As Blake had expected, Vince Soldi was far from pleased.

  “I can’t keep a permanent guard posted there,” he expostulated. “Cambridge may be a small town compared with Boston, but I assure you, Special Agent, this isn’t the only case we’ve got. It’s definitely not the only homicide we’re working.”

  “I understand,” Blake said in as reasonable a tone as he could manage. Phone clutched to his ear, he paced the hallway floor. From the double doors leading out to the terrace, past the snoring Cowan, all the way to the door—painted to blend in with the neutral beige walls—Reynolds’ killer had used to gain access to the third floor.

  Celine was studying the side entrance as he walked past. “I don’t think our interloper lives in the building,” she told Julia. He stopped to listen; Soldi was still grumbling. “She came in through a side door like this one—but not this one.”

  She looked up at the ceiling.

  “There’s a door like it on every floor—on the floor above as well,” Blake told her. He covered the mouthpiece on his phone, but Soldi heard him nevertheless.

  “What?” he asked gruffly.

  “Looks like our trespasser came in the same way the killer did. From the floor above, however.” That was how she’d made herself appear to be a resident of the apartment, on her way out.

  “Hmmpf,” Soldi grunted. “And you know this how exactly, Special Agent? Tarot cards? Some other psychic mumbo jumbo?”

  Blake was ready for that. “Doorman didn’t see her come in,” he explained smoothly. He’d taken the time to check this out. “Visitors have to sign themselves in.”

  Soldi would know that to be fact. The Massachusetts State Police Detectives had questioned the doorman last night.

  “And listen,” he continued as Soldi digested the information, “about guarding the door, I’m sure the FBI can figure something out.”

  “You better not think of posting your men there,” Soldi warned. “We don’t release the apartment in time, and it’s our department that gets to hear an earful. Media talking about civilian rights being encroached and all that crap. I can do without that.”

  Damn. No men.

  “Can’t Assistant DA Campari handle the media?”

  “She can handle anyone, Special Agent. The point is, she’s a special kind of something. She sees a bus barreling toward her, and she shoves the first person she can toward it. Helps her preserve her social justice credentials.”

  “Even though it potentially compromises her case?” Jesus, what kind of ass was this woman? Blake had suspected all along that ADA Mariah Campari was a piece of work—years of experience wo
rking on the job gave you an insight into people. Even those you had yet to meet.

  But even the most hard-assed district attorneys he’d met had the sense to try to win—not lose—cases they were assigned to.

  “What’s she care? She gets paid, regardless,” Soldi growled cynically. “Bottom line, no men.”

  The Deputy Superintendent sounded as likely to budge on the subject as a bullet lodged in a murder victim’s cranium.

  “Fine, no men,” Blake agreed. “How about something more subtle?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Concealed cameras,” Blake informed him bluntly. That was his last word on the subject. “If you think the ADA is going to have a problem with it, don’t tell her.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Blake had been tempted to sneak Celine into Reynolds’ place before the crime scene techs got there, but he held off. If there was any evidence in there—anything that could lead them to the killer and whatever information Reynolds had possessed—Blake wanted it discovered.

  Not just by the book, but uncontaminated by any material that could steer them off-course.

  The wait as it turned out wasn’t that long. Soldi sending his men, as promised, in under ten minutes.

  “You’ll need to fingerprint the place,” Blake informed the three techs. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Cowan being lifted onto a gurney and wheeled to the elevator. It was fortunately large enough to accommodate a stretcher.

  Cowan was a big guy, and muscular as the two paramedics appeared to be, Blake didn’t want to bet on their chances of carrying the heavyset officer three floors down.

  “We’ve already fingerprinted the goddamn place,” one of the three techies—a redheaded guy—grumbled.

  “And you’ll do it again.” Blake looked him squarely in the eyes. “We’ve had an intruder. Doesn’t look like she was wearing gloves. That means her prints are all over the place.”

  “Maybe concentrate on the bedroom,” Celine softly added. She and Julia were standing on the outskirts of the small group, patiently waiting until they were given the all clear.