Читать книгу A Voice in the Dark - Jenna Ryan - Страница 9

No one Angel knew, except maybe her uncle who ran whale-watching charters out of Juneau, could talk for hours and in the end say nothing. No one, except a reporter like Paul Reuben.

“I know how to get into people’s heads, Moscow.” She deposited her keys on a tray inside her front door. “I know how to get into a rat’s head even better, and I got nowhere with that guy. I want a hot bath, anything I don’t have to cook and a big glass of Chardonnay.” She knelt to ruffle the husky’s ears. “So how was your day?”

Pawing the shoulder of her red leather jacket, he nosed her toward the phone.

“Someone called?”

He barked.

“Someone you hear on my voice mail, but never see? A man whose face I try to paint, but who keeps coming out looking like Lamont Cranston’s alter ego?”

Shedding her jacket and bag, she headed for the bathroom. After washing her hands and splashing cold water on her face, she felt better, not totally alert, but functional. She changed into a pair of drawstring pants and a T, pulled her hair into a high ponytail, left her feet bare and went into the kitchen.

Hot cocoa, she thought with a roll of her head to loosen the tight muscles. “And one doggie treat,” she told the expectant husky. She held up a single finger. “One.”

As she passed the phone, she hit the retrieve button on her voice mail. At maximum volume, the messages came through clearly.

“Hi, Angel, it’s Pete Peloni, from Peloni’s Place. You left your sunglasses on the table last time you were here. Also, I’m trying out a new mushroom-veggie pizza with hot pepper sauce. I’m working most of tonight and all day tomorrow. I’ll drop off a sample on my way home. Catch you later.”

Angel regarded the package of instant cocoa in her hand and laughed as she shook it down. “You’re not likely to convert me, Pete, but my mother would appreciate the effort.”

Brian Pinkney followed. “It’s after seven, Monday night, Angel. Thought you’d be home by now. I wouldn’t do this for anyone except you and Liz, so consider yourself privileged, but I ran the comps on all the Penny Killer murders. Highlighted the similarities, and also took care of the B-side—the irregularities. Basically, I did some major decluttering for you. It’s more than Pruneface Skater would have done. Info’s waiting in a file labeled Angel’s PKMs. I have to say, this one’s a stumper. Hope you like coffee and caffeine pills, sweetheart. You’re gonna need ‘em.”

Next up, Graeme Thomas wanted her to fly to Atlantic City with him for a convention the following weekend. “They have wedding chapels there, too,” he remarked with a wink in his voice that made her chuckle as she poured boiling water into a big “I Love Bullwinkle’s Cousins” mug.

Twenty minutes later, he called again. “Sorry, babe. Change of plans. Looks like I’ll be doing double duty at the Victim Support Center this weekend. Would you believe that one of the families I’ve been counseling has lost three of their kids to murder and drunk drivers in less than five years? Some people have absolutely no luck. How’s the Boardwalk between Christmas and New Year’s sound to you…?”

Wandering into the solarium she used as a painting studio, Angel hoisted herself onto a high stool, blew into the steaming mug and studied her latest canvas. The face she’d attempted to paint had no definition, only blurred and shadowed features. Still, something of the man came through for her.

“Probably because I know it’s you,” she reflected, and touched his mouth with an exploratory fingertip.

Her doctor’s office called next—she’d missed an appointment—and then Bergman’s pushy assistant, three times. Pete came back, on adding a soy cheese and green vegetable pizza to the revised menu, and finally, finally, the one she’d been hoping for. Noah Graydon.

Unfortunately, all he said was, “Read your e-mails, Angel.”

She sighed at the painting. “You know I prefer verbal communication, Noah. I can’t hear you in an e-mail.”

Licking whipped cream from the rim of her mug, she vacated her stool and headed for the computer.

The first e-mail was from Joe and directed her to a restricted FBI site, where she viewed Lionel Foret’s autopsy results.

The forensic team had discovered only microscopic fibers and Foret’s own skin cells under his fingernails. There’d been one bird feather and several strands of his own hair on his coat. Joe placed the time of death between midnight and 12:30 a.m. He said he’d have put it closer to twelve, except Foret had been wearing thermal underwear, so he’d needed to allow for a cocoon effect.

“Let me know who won the pool,” Joe typed. “Also, my wife told me to tell you that you must come for Thanksgiving dinner. Bring your mom and her trucker if they’re in town. Oh, and her Harley—that’s for me. FYI, Jaynie loves her new pink shoes. She told me to thank Auntie Angel again.

“Not wanting to mix business with pleasure, but I’m sorry for the delay on the Foret case. One of my techs mislaid the results. We found them in the file of a Balinese man who died three days ago from ptomaine poisoning. Don’t be a stranger…”

“As if I could.” Hitting a key, she moved on to Noah’s message. Her cell phone, doing a sudden dance across the desk, interrupted her.

“Tell me you didn’t just get home.”

Noah’s sexy drawl brought a swell of regret to Angel’s throat.

“Ten minutes ago.” Blanking the monitor, she crossed to the window seat, tucked herself into the lotus position and sipped. “Multiple messages, minimum lights. I made hot cocoa, but I probably should have made up an ice pack instead.” She probed her bruised cheek. “Gonna need major makeup tomorrow.”

“I don’t like that picture, Angel. How bruised are we talking?”

“It’s not a black eye, and the guy only got me because I tripped over a piece of pipe. Totally clumsy.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Did you hear? Bergman’s got Prune—uh, Bill Skater working the profile for the Penny Killer. Brian Pinkney’s really pissed off.”

“How can you tell?”

She laughed, considered briefly as she surveyed the glittering city skyline visible above the park side trees, then said, “Noah, have I ever told you that I play chess?”

“Pretty sure that’s a no.”

“Well, I do. Long Alaska nights, wicked blizzards, gen power running low, so no movies, no Dancing with the Stars…”

Noah breathed out whatever he was feeling. Annoyance, frustration, resignation.

The sound sent a shimmer of guilt through her system. “Look, I’m tired, okay, and a little cranky. I wasn’t…”

“You don’t want to meet me, Angel.”

Humor trickled in. “An amazing profiler, and he reads minds, too. Not accurately, but what can you expect over a phone line? Come on, Noah, even Spock’s Vulcan mind meld required a certain amount of physical contact. And if you ask me who Spock is, I’ll be convinced you live in space instead of him.”

“Call it a shadow world.”

“You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

“The Internet has game partners…”

“Go there,” she warned, “and I’m hanging up. I also give up. Temporarily.” Turning slightly, she zeroed in on the area where she thought he lived. “Why the call?”

“Because you’re still on the clock at 10:00 p.m.”

“And you’re not?”

“I do my best work at night.”

Not chess, but a game of strategy nonetheless. His words flowed through her like warm brandy, seducing her far more than they probably should. Angel’s stomach muscles quivered and her skin felt unnaturally hot. But seduction was a thing she could match in her sleep.

Running a finger over her cell, she rested her back on the wall and let a note of teasing humor invade her voice. “It might come as a surprise to you, Noah, but night’s one of my best times, too. Or so I’ve been told.”

His hesitation spoke volumes. So did his tone when he said, “Below the belt, Angel, in more ways than one.”

Now that was the point. But did hearing it change anything?

Moscow barked. Twisting the mouthpiece upward, she asked him, “What is it?” She told Noah, “Dog’s excited.,”

The husky ran to the door, paused at the jamb. A second later, she heard a knock.

“That’ll be Pete.” Uncrossing her legs, she took another sip of cocoa, then stretched like a cat. “He says I’m a bad eater. Keeps trying to push tofu and veggie pizza on me.”

“Pete?”

Was there a frown attached to the question? Might be worth playing—to a point.

“Pete Peloni. He’s a guy I know. Tall. Very attractive. Really nice. He runs Peloni’s Place in Little Italy. It’s a sort of Italian restaurant with an upscale vibe, about ten blocks from the processing plant where Foret was killed. No segue intended. Liz and I go there sometimes for lunch. I guess she likes tofu…Yes, I’m coming, Moscow.” But she hesitated halfway to the door. “Why did you call, Noah?”

“I found a shoe site.”

“Excuse me?”

“Women’s shoes, thousands of them. It’s a French site. Designer boots and shoes at knock-off prices. Proof that one or two of my ancestors did in fact come from Europe.”

Delight mingled with astonishment. Delight won, hands down.

“I’ll go there tonight,” she promised, “and let you know tomorrow how big a hit my credit card takes.” With a motion to silence Moscow, she added a soft, “Thanks, Noah,” and ended the call. “Yes, I’m here,” she told the excited husky “Why the fuss?” Placing her palm on the frame, she looked through the viewer.

The corridor was empty.

“Took too long, huh? Well, it couldn’t have been Pete. He’d have left a bag of goodies big enough to feed everyone in the building.”

Which was only three other tenants, since the “building,” once a huge post-Revolution mansion, had been converted into four large condos. But Pete believed in stocked fridges as deeply as he believed in healthy eating.

Angel started to turn away. Then she frowned and did a double take through the viewer.

No box sat on the polished hallway floor—but something else did. After a quick second sweep, she snicked the bolt and opened the door.

It could have been a discarded grocery list lying there, but Angel’s instincts suggested otherwise. With Moscow sniffing the air, she used the back of her index finger to flick the paper over.

And seeing the words printed there, breathed a heartfelt, “Damn.”

NOAH HEARD THE WHIR of an approaching motor, followed by wheels rolling over damp pavement. From his crouch, and without looking back, he acknowledged the new arrival.

“Been a while, old friend.”

“Oh, just a few years. Like say—five?”

The belligerent thrust said it all. Noah half smiled at the ground. “Let me guess, you’re angry with Bergman.”

“Wouldn’t you be? He’s letting Pruneface Skater do the profile on this guy. So far all I’ve heard is that the killer’s a male—wow, that took a brain the size of Everest to figure—right-handed and he gets his victims from behind. A chimp could have told us that much, and a hell of a lot quicker than Pruneface did.”

“What do you want, Brian?”

The wheels ground closer. “Same as you. To nail the bastard who turned you into a ghost and me into a cripple.”

Noah reviewed the outline of Foret’s body that he’d drawn from memory. “You crippled yourself, and I withdrew by choice. We can’t blame a madman for everything.”

“No, we can’t do that. Some of the blame has to fall on other shoulders.”

And here it came, Noah thought.

The wheelchair gave a whiny rev. “The kid was green, Noah. You were supposed to be training him. That was the deal. Instead, you let him meet a murderer alone, with no backup and no idea what he was getting into.”

Noah stood slowly, felt the metal basket push into the side of his long coat. “What is it you want? Blood from a stone? Not gonna happen. Blood from another victim? Already done. You knew the killer wasn’t dead, and so did I.”

“That fire…”

“Only destroyed the warehouse and its contents.”

“The investigating agents said the flames were hot enough to incinerate bone.”

“But they didn’t.” Noah turned his head halfway. “Because there were no bones to burn, and when the fire was out, only another victim in the morgue. You drove too fast, I didn’t move fast enough, and it didn’t end that night.”

“And all of it, every last frigging scrap, was your fault, you bast…”

“Don’t.” Noah switched his gaze to the water. “You want to be bitter, go ahead. You want to wallow, be my guest. But don’t roll up to me on the spot where another victim lost his life and try to blame me for everything that went wrong that night. For what’s always been wrong in your life.”

Red-faced, Brian circled until they faced each other. “And your life’s just peachy, is it? Exactly the way you want it to be? Tell me you’re not bitter, that you’re not wallowing, that you don’t blame yourself for what happened. Tell me, and we’ll both have a good laugh.”

His voice trembled but whether from fury or sorrow, Noah couldn’t say. In any case, he softened his attitude and his expression. “It shouldn’t have gone the way it did. I should have known the kid would go off half-cocked with a bellyful of something to prove. Not sure if the proving was for your benefit or mine, but it doesn’t matter. He was green. I wasn’t. I should have seen it coming.”

Brian’s knuckles whitened on the steering handles. “Is that supposed to make me feel better—you admitting you were wrong?”

A faint smile touched Noah’s mouth. In the pocket of his coat his cell phone began to vibrate. “Not particularly. Just thought it should be said. The past’s done, Brian. Your feelings are your own. But I want this guy—for a lot of reasons.”

“And because you can’t be on the case, you’re prepared to use Angel to get him. No matter what the cost.”

Noah simply stared until Brian spun with a jerk. Slapping the motorized vehicle in gear, he zoomed through the shadows and into the access way.

But not before Noah glimpsed the glitter of contempt in his eyes—and the twist of hatred he didn’t bother to hide on his lips.

“NOT GOING TO OVERREACT,” Angel promised herself. “I’ve been threatened before and will again. This isn’t new.” With the phone to her ear, she paced the perimeter of her living room floor. “Pick up, Graydon. We were talking less than twenty minutes ago.”

“Didn’t like the shoes, huh?” he said at last.

Stopping at the window, she let her eyes flit to the park across the street. “Much as I love the sexy drawl, I got a note.”

That killed it. “When?” he demanded.

No what, only when, in a whip-sharp tone that had nothing to do with sexy. “Maybe twenty minutes ago. I followed procedure, checked out the stairwells and doors, front and back. Whoever delivered it was gone. My neighbors who are home didn’t see a thing. There are no foot or tire prints.” She dragged the elastic band from her hair, blew out a breath. “How does this guy choose his victims, Noah? I have no connection to Foret. I’m not a soccer mom with three kids, a biotech who analyzes ocean fungus, or the CEO of a national supermarket chain. Yes, there was an FBI agent on the list of victims, along with a cop and another lawyer, but we’re talking years of separation and no link between them that anyone could find, including you, who’d have dug up whatever was diggable. So all that leaves is the fact that I’m working this case.” A sudden thought brought her head around with a snap. “Oh, my God, Liz!”

“Calm down, Angel.”

She raked the hair from her face, held it there. Breathed. And again. “I am calm. I am,” she repeated. “Perfectly. That babble was just me sorting through the confusion.” Crossing to the land phone, she punched her partner’s number.

“Is Liz at home?”

“No idea. I’m calling her cell—which, of course, she’s not answering…Liz, it’s Angel. I need you to call me back. It’s urgent…” She swung around. “Noah, are we talking about a multiple-target killer here? You know, threaten a new victim before he’s disposed of another?”

His lack of response wasn’t encouraging. She entered her partner’s home number, then tried Joe on his cell, leaving urgent messages on both.

“Moscow, come away from the window.” She caught his collar with two fingers. “Why me, Noah? Because of the case or not?”

“Angel…”

“I know, I know.” She tugged harder. “You don’t know.” Frustration battled fear. And thankfully beat it back. “What’s that sound?”

“My truck. Stay inside. Doors and windows locked, lights off. I’ll handle the follow-up.”

“I promise you, the guy’s gone. I even went through my upstairs neighbor’s condo. I’m watering her plants while she’s away for the holidays. There was no one.”

“Humor me, okay?”

She heard a squeal of tires. “Well, yeah—if you get here. The door’s bolted, and Moscow may be young, but he’s trained. I have two guns, I was top ten in hand-to-hand, and I’ve got adrenaline to spare at this point.”

“Use it to think. Just make sure you do it inside your place.”

“I’m not…”

“Promise me, Angel.”

The words wanted to stick. However…“Okay, I promise. On one condition.”

“And that is?”

Another squeal had her wincing. “Make it two. First, that you slow down, and second, that you don’t tell Bergman about this.”

“No.”

Frustration bled into exasperation. “Why not? And don’t be obtuse. Foret’s not the only person with connections in the capitol. My uncle’s a congressman.”

“Retired and living in Juneau.”

“I said don’t be obtuse.”

“This isn’t a game, Angel.”

“I’m not playing one. This is my life and my case. If Bergman pulls me off, I’ll simply investigate on my own time, without partner or backup.”

“The note you got tonight is evidence. You’d have to withhold it. Federal offense, Agent Carter.”

“I’ll have it analyzed for prints and all the usual etceteras. Fully aware here, Graydon, whatever you might think.”

A final squeal of brakes told her he’d arrived. She couldn’t resist, she returned to the window and stared at the street below.

It had to be Noah who climbed from the large, black truck. His coat was long and, she suspected, also black. In fact, everything about him appeared black, even his hair, which she thought might skim his shoulders. She couldn’t tell because he was wearing a hat with a broad brim and, since it was still raining, had his collar turned up.

He was definitely tall. Over six feet, with a long stride and, she imagined, a lean build.

Unfortunately, no features were visible, and she only had a glimpse to go on as the shadows of the old house swallowed him up within seconds of his arrival.

Moscow wedged himself between her and the ledge and pushed on her legs.

“Okay.” She gave his side an appreciative pat. “Backing away.”

But she glanced toward the solarium. It felt downright spooky that she would have painted Noah almost exactly as she’d seen him tonight. A shadow within a shadow.

“I’m in.”

“What? Oh.” She’d forgotten about the active phone connection. A frown, then, “In the building?”

“I’ve already gone through the lobby.”

Not going to ask, she decided. “Noah?”

“Stay where you are,” he repeated.

“Yes, I got that part. I thought you’d like to know what the note said.”

“I was getting to it.” But he sounded distracted which probably meant he was searching again. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

She unhooked and lowered the blind, didn’t need to see the words to recall them. “It said: THE CIRCLE OF UNDERSTANDING WILL BE COMPLETE AT LAST. He stenciled it on a scrap of yellow newsprint, the kind you use for notes in college.” She heard boots on the stair treads and added, “I went through the basement, too.”

“Did I mention the part about humoring me?”

“Did I mention the part about not telling Bergman?”

“Can’t hear you, Angel. Bad reception.”

“That’s not very original.” When he didn’t respond, she sighed, “Come on, Noah.”

Only silence reached her.

She debated for a moment, then shrugged and dropped the phone in the pocket of her pants. “In that case, ditto.” Pulling on her coat and boots, she picked up her gun, motioned to Moscow and slipped into the hall’s period lighting, glowing and romantic, perfect for a nineteenth-century mansion.

But the shadows that might have been deemed intimate in their day created a much less appealing atmosphere right now. Angel angled her gun toward the coffered ceiling as she started down the stairs.

Because the first-floor neighbors were abnormally nosy, she knew all the creaks and how to avoid them. Moscow padded ahead of her. Angel retrieved her cell and brought it to her ear.

“Noah, are you there?”

No answer.

Had the communication really broken up? Builders had added a layer of concrete between the first floor and cellar. It was possible, she supposed, if a little too convenient.

“Noah?”

Still no response.

“Don’t think I’m liking this, Moscow. Be very quiet.”

The dog’s ears twitched, but he obeyed.

The shadows deepened on the first floor, because, of course, no one had bothered to replace the burned out light near the basement door.

“Noah?” She called his name, first into her cell and again down the narrow cellar stairwell.

The single shaft of light trickling upward didn’t quite reach the top. Use the main switch, or take a chance and creep down in the semidarkness? Either way, she could wind up shot.

She opted to creep, on the off chance that the killer was still lurking. Noah would be too well trained to shoot first and ask questions later. She hoped.

“Behind me, Moscow.”

She made one last attempt to raise Noah on her cell. When he didn’t answer, she disconnected. Liz might be trying to call her, although she hadn’t noticed a vibration from her caller alert. Maybe Joe had taken his wife out for a late dinner.

She counted down fourteen steps, used her free hand for balance on the wall and kept her gun up.

Moscow gave a prolonged growl—not a promising sign.

“Stay back,” she ordered, then peered into the gloom. “Noah?”

Eyes moving, she sketched the layout. Bike room dead ahead, furnace room to the left, storage right. The cellar smelled of old earth, old bricks and centuries’ old wood. But strangely, the faint scent of apples superceded all those things in Angel’s mind, and gave the place a sense of nostalgia that took her back to her grandmother’s Iowa root cellar.

She’d played hidden ghost there with her cousins several times as a child—until nasty cousin Billy had grabbed her ankle from under the stairs and almost given her a coronary.

Moscow growled again. Angel accepted the shiver that rippled along her spine. Had the darkness shifted?

The growl became a barely muffled bark. The dog’s muscles bunched against her thigh. Setting a hand on his head, she stilled him.

She felt it, too. Something about the air had altered. She made a cautious half circle, saw nothing. But there was a sound. A movement. A faint swish of motion that bordered on invisible.