Embracing Midnight (6 page)

Very probable and very possible. Such an incident could probably be swept under the rug without much fuss or bother. She doubted any of their superiors would care much.

Callie took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. Yuck. Cold. She found herself wishing for a tall double mocha latte with extra whipped cream and a warm croissant with sausage, egg, and cheese to appear. Instant was fine to get your eyes open, but she needed a real cup of coffee.

Norton took the hint. “You want me to skip out for something? There’s a bakery down the street. I can grab some donuts and better coffee.”

Callie considered his scruffy vagabond look. Few would suspect a well-educated, well-spoken man existed under the layers of grime and shabby clothing. “Sure. Donuts would be great.”

Inwardly she winced. Junk food wasn’t her normal choice, but with her schedule so whacked, she’d been eating catch-as-catch-can, and none of her choices had been healthful in the least. Add in the fact she’d been scrimping on her exercise, frequently missing her regular routine of a thousand sit-ups and equal number of push-ups. It was a mistake to get soft, lazy. She silently resolved she’d catch up as soon as possible.

Norton gave a thumbs-up. “Cool.” He checked his watch, one of four cheap bands decorating his hairy wrist, just like a dime bag–buying junkie would have stolen. “Give me twenty minutes.”

“Don’t let anyone see you,” she cautioned as if it were necessary.

Norton started to say something but a muddled beep interrupted his reply. He fished through a pocket, digging it out. “Christ,” he muttered. “Such timing.”

“What?”

He showed her the digital readout. The hair raised at the back of her neck. Jaw hardening, Callie’s gut took an unpleasant jolt.

911.

R
eceiving the same message on her own pager, Callie set into action. Splitting up from Norton, she took off on her motorcycle, heading toward the nearby bus station. Once there, she claimed the large duffel bag she’d stashed in one of the coin-operated luggage lockers.

Bag in hand, she headed for the ladies’ room and locked herself in a stall. Identification, badge, and gun were squirreled away inside the bag, along with a handheld computer, credit and gas cards, five thousand dollars in cash, a cell phone, and a change of clothes. The message on the pager meant one thing, and one thing alone.

Someone was dead.

She checked her cell. Two messages waited on voice mail.

Opening the phone, Callie called the service, punching in her code to pick up her messages. Both were terse, from Roger: County morgue, ASAP.

Jesus.

Slipping out of her jeans, she pulled on a pair of slacks before buttoning a black jacket over her T-shirt. She filled her pockets, arming up as a member of law enforcement. She drew a steadying breath. Catching a brief glimpse of her face in the mirror, she saw lines of worry puckering her forehead. Shadows lingered behind her gaze, the ghosts of disappointment and disillusionment. For all her apparent success in the field of law enforcement, her personal life was a washout. Work was the only thing keeping her sane. She wondered how long that would last working with Roger Reinke again.

“We are over.” She slipped on a pair of sunglasses, happy to hide behind the impenetrable shield of plastic.

Callie returned her bag to the locker, slipping more coins into the slot. The woman walking out of the bus station looked and acted nothing like the woman who’d walked in. Not so much in the disguise, but in the attitude. She hailed a cab, heading downtown.

Thirty minutes later the cabbie dropped her off in the parking lot surrounding the offices of the county.

Paying the driver, Callie pocketed her change. The cab didn’t have a good air conditioner, and recent rains had made the moist air even balmier than normal. A layer of sweat clung to her skin, something it seemed no amount of cold showers and soap washed away. She felt wet patches under her arms, trickles of sweat making their way down her spine to her underwear.

She pulled in a deep breath, taking in the scents of the city: a mixture of carbon monoxide and damp concrete tinged with the smell of pure human waste from a sewer system that threatened to overflow under the continual torrent of rain. Such were the familiar smells of Belmonde, Virginia.

She looked past the sidewalks, farther out onto the acres of beautifully manicured lawns. The grass was still green, reluctant to give in to the end of the cycle that would have it wither away to autumn’s drab brown cloak. Stately old oak trees lined the northern perimeter of the grounds, perfectly in sync with the manicured hedges acting as a fence in lieu of man-made materials. Beyond the hedges lay the rest of the world, blissfully unaware death had struck down a fellow human being.

Callie hurried inside. The maze of halls confused most outsiders. Getting directions, she followed a narrow hallway to examination room number three. Her guts roiled. God, she hated looking at dead people.

Through the glass, she spotted Roger Reinke standing with three other agents. Agent Norton wasn’t present. Roger, Charlie Grayson, and Mitch Reeve, she knew. The third man was Assistant Director in Charge Samuel Faber, their boss. So far he’d distanced himself from the investigation. Apparently that was about to change.

All agents present were dressed identically: black suit, white shirt, black tie, and shoes polished to a mirror-bright sheen. No wonder bureau agents were frequently identified as the
men in black
.

Brad Jackson, the county coroner, worked over the body. His skin was pallid from a life spent under fluorescent lighting, drinking too much coffee, and exercising too little. Dark circles drooped under his eyes, the result of many late nights laboring over the dead.

Callie tapped on the glass.

Reinke glanced up. There wasn’t a sign of familiarity or warmth in his eyes in his acknowledgment of her arrival. He was in his work mode: stone cold, formal, and absolutely focused. Seeing her, he beckoned her inside. His gesture seemed to say, “hurry up and get your ass over here.” The day was going to be a long one and these guys wanted to get on with business.

She walked to the door, braced herself, then opened it. Though outwardly calm, her nerves were on edge. “Death waits for no one,” she murmured under her breath.

Set to a chilly sixty-five degrees, the air-conditioned room was like a salve on her flushed skin. All shiny metal and cool white tile, the autopsy room was immaculate, close to germless. The cleaning solutions used to sterilize and sanitize scorched her nostrils. Death, however, still lingered. Not exactly an actual smell, but more a psychological one. In Callie’s mind each person’s passing seemed to have a different odor—some not so bad, others reeking.

This one reeked.

Reinke broke away from the group examining the body. A strapping, no-nonsense veteran of the streets, he was all sharp edges and razor creases. Standing well over six feet, he not only entered a room, but filled it. Not only with his size, but with his commanding personality. Raw energy radiated around him.

Roger’s intense gaze studied her a moment. “Agent Whitten. Glad you made it. We’ve been waiting.” He didn’t allow his expression or tone to give away his thoughts.

Her heart rate sped up. Roger had fifteen years on her age-wise, but that meant nothing. At forty-five he was vital and vigorous, having twice the energy of a much younger man.

Figuratively speaking, seeing Roger was like having shards of glass ground into her eyes. It hurt. “I came as soon as I got the messages.” There was nothing else to say that would be appropriate, so she said nothing. Callie could only look at her ex-lover.

And remember.

Seeing him so close, a fierce urge to beg him to take her back shot through her mind. How in the name of God had she gotten along without him for six months? If she closed her eyes, she easily pictured him naked, palming her hips in his huge hands, fingers digging tightly, almost painfully, into her skin, pushing the tip of his cock against her clit, teasing but not entering. Roger enjoyed making her beg for it.

She’d begged.

Remembering his possessive touch, her skin responded with fire. The air in the cramped room seemed to evaporate. She was suddenly burning up despite the chill. She unzipped her jacket.

Roger’s eyes caught the move. A secret knowing smile crossed his lips. He knew exactly what lay under her clothes. She might as well have stripped down to her skin by the hungry look lurking in his eyes.

She turned away. Damn, that man’s gaze was an
eyefuck
almost as satisfying as sex itself. She’d believed she was ready to work with Roger again, despite the ugly end of their affair. She was mistaken. She was far from ready. She had no business accepting this assignment.

The rhythm of her heart sped up. She cursed herself for allowing her emotions to simmer. In the back of her mind, she measured the man she’d have to stand up against. If he wanted to play it that way, she’d have to brush him off and give him the cold shoulder. Indulging herself with him had almost ruined her personally. Letting it destroy her professionally would be the last nail in her coffin. That couldn’t happen. It would be a test of her mettle to go on as if nothing had ever happened between them.

Nothing at all, would be her mantra.

She swallowed, attempting to banish her fear and discomfort. The morning’s coffee curdled in her stomach. Fear was an emotion for the weak. Fear would make her too afraid to go on with her life. Fear would destroy her, shred her like a small animal under the claws of a larger, hungrier beast. She had to be intense, focused, relentless.

Clearing her mind of thoughts related to their affair, Callie refocused her attention. “What happened?”

Without missing a beat, Reinke answered. “We’ve got another victim.” In the span of a few seconds his gaze had changed, to cold, flat, and impersonal. “Take a look for yourself.”

Callie looked. Tension returned. Damn. She hated looking at dead people, especially murder victims.

Under the glare of probing lights, the naked victim was female, young, and, once, very pretty. Hair the color of pure corn silk straggled around her face and shoulders, strangely bright against the unhealthy pallor of her skin. A simple gold cross on a chain circled her neck.

The jolt of recognition struck powerfully.

Callie felt the blood drain from her face. Just a day before, the girl had been alive and, seemingly, well. Though not a particularly religious person, Callie hoped the cross offered a comfort to the woman before she died. In the back of her mind she doubted the thought.

Squelching her rising emotion, she clenched a hand at her side. If she cried, it would ruin the illusion she was desperate to create, one of control and distance.

Callie blinked.

The victim didn’t. Brown eyes stared up with an opaque gaze. Her complexion was pale, as if God had cast her in wax instead of flesh. Dried blood crusted both nostrils. The trail had rounded her mouth to track down her chin and neck. Colorless lips were drawn back in a rictal grimace. She’d resisted death.

And lost.

The medical examiner caught the look on her face. “First one you’ve seen like this?”

Callie nodded. “Yes.”

Reinke watched her every reaction like a hawk. “Know who she is?”

Mouth all of a sudden desert dry, Callie swallowed, reminding herself to breathe. Still, the invisible fingers refused to lessen their grip. Trying to clear her mind, she felt both sick and shaky, like someone suffering a nerve-shattering shock. Her head felt as though it had been squeezed in a vise.

She swayed slightly, then shook her head as if to regain her inner balance. The twinge in her shoulders was turning into relentless knots. “I don’t know her name, but I saw her at the bar last night with Drake. They seemed on good terms.”

Reinke’s lips formed a cruel line across his face. “Apparently things changed.” His voice was barely restrained fury.

Stay calm.
“So it seems.”

Leveling an unflinching gaze, Reinke angrily pointed to the body. His expression was so intense it seemed the pressure from his clenched jaw would shatter his face. “That’s what Drake does when he tosses them back.”

His words flooded her mind. Fighting the clench of nerves, Callie drew in a breath, striving to keep her own expression neutral. “How long has she been dead?”

The coroner raised his head. “Not long. From the liver temperature, I’d guess it was sometime late last night.”

Feeling a sudden pressure behind her eyes, Callie lifted a hand to massage her temple. A queasy sensation was slithering into her bowels. This case had taken a turn down a complicated path. She knew for a fact Drake had slipped out of Hell-Bound Train around two
AM
—taking the woman with him. It seemed inconceivable he could commit murder, and then chase Callie down a few hours later.

Inconceivable, maybe. Impossible? Not entirely. Especially if he had help.

“Where was she found?”

Agent Charlie Grayson consulted his notebook. “Down in the NoLo, an alley behind one of the abandoned hotels. Sanitation workers found her this morning around seven.”
NoLo
was local slang for Belmonde’s lower north side. Part of the city’s red-light district, the sin and skin trade was alive and well. Along the strip of back streets hosting the city’s sex trade, the sultry town sizzled with blazing hot adult entertainment.

The time was presently ten after one in the afternoon. It hadn’t taken long for the feds to swoop in and claim the victim from local law enforcement.

“Go ahead and fill her in,” Reinke said.

The ME nodded. A balding gnome, nature had put tiny eyes over a large nose and an even larger mouth, none of which matched. Fingers stained with nicotine, he continually dressed the same way: wrinkled khakis, and a lab coat stained with blood, food, and God knew what else.

“We know this one belongs to our suspect, as he rarely deviates from his chosen methods.” Brad Jackson lifted one of the victim’s hands. A series of gouges, like a perfect dotted line, ringed the girl’s wrist. The gouges weren’t deep, just enough to penetrate the surface of the skin. The other wrist bore identical damages, as did her neck.

Callie gave a tight grimace. “What did that?”

Jackson peered over the rim of heavy plastic frames. “My guess is some kind of restraint, very tight and most likely very uncomfortable to endure. Only the most sadistic mind could’ve conceived something like this to assert control.”

An emotional knot wedged in Callie’s throat. Her hand clenched tighter, as if to squeeze away any influences his words might have transferred to her. The prickle rising at the back of her neck kicked up a notch. Being bound with something that invasive must have been terrifying.