Generation 18: The Spook Squad 2 (8 page)

“A few spots of blood splattered across the mirror. A bloodstained sweater wrapped in plastic and stuffed deep into the trash can.” She pushed the door open and entered. Her movements were still slow, but becoming steadier.

He could only shake his head in amazement. She shouldn’t even be alive, for Christ’s sake, and here she was, walking and talking almost normally. Whatever race she was, it was a damn strong one.

“So our murderer came down here to clean up?”

“It would appear so.”

The trash can’s cabinet door stood ajar. The plastic bag was easy enough to see, wedged about halfway down. A CSM hovered nearby, light flashing to indicate it was recording.

He put on fresh gloves, reached into the bin and grabbed the plastic bag, holding it by two fingers in an effort not to foul whatever prints might be available. Blood smeared the plastic inside and out.

“Military green,” she murmured. “Available in any disposal store.”

“Yes.” He tapped his wristcom and called O’Neal, instructing the young detective to bring the crime kit down. Then he glanced back at her. “Where are the blood spots?”

She pointed to an arc of five microscopic spots. Maybe the murderer had flicked her hair, spraying droplets across the mirror, but how had Sam spotted them?
He
could barely see them, and his hawk-sharpened senses were more attuned to things like this.

“The murderer is desperate.” Sam stared at the spots, her expression becoming distant once again. “She knows we’re closing in. She needs to get the job finished. Needs to fulfill promises made.”

Her voice was as distant as her expression. He’d seen this type of thing before—the SIU employed several psychics who could read the emotions that lingered in otherwise empty rooms. But Sam had been tested repeatedly for psychic gifts, and she had repeatedly come up negative. That is, until she reached the SIU, where she’d registered as a neutral—a feat that should have been impossible.

Finley had said that it implied her abilities were so strong that she was able to void all the tests done on her.

“What promises?” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to jar her out of her trancelike state.

“To the dead.” She hesitated, frowning lightly. “To her twin sister.”

Emma Pierce was listed as an only child, but she was also adopted. So it might be worth checking to see if a mistake had been made. “Why is she killing these people?”

“They should not exist.”

Her breathing was becoming too shallow, too quick. As much as he needed the insights, he couldn’t let her continue. Not while she was still clearing the Jadrone from her system.

“Sam.” He touched her arm lightly and she jumped.

Her gaze leapt to his, her expression confused and just a touch frightened. “What happened?”

“You were reading the room. Or the emotions in the room.”

A shudder ran through her. “It felt like I was an observer in someone else’s dream. I could see and hear what was going on, but I couldn’t intervene.”

He touched her cheek, gently wiping away a drop of sweat. “I think those psychic gifts you don’t have are starting to come to the surface.”

She stared at him and then shook her head. “Impossible! I was tested.”

“The tests can be skewed. I think we should do more.”

She reeled back as if he’d hit her. “No more tests. You promised!”

“I also promised to help you get answers about your past. That isn’t going to happen unless you start cooperating.”

“No.” She crossed her arms, her look mutinous. “The last batch of tests almost killed me. I won’t do any more.”

She was talking about the tests that the bastard she’d once called her partner had performed. “Jack didn’t care about you, only what you were and how he could use you.”

“And are you so very different, Assistant Director?”

The barb struck home and his anger surged. O’Neal chose that moment to walk into the room, but he stopped abruptly, his gaze darting from Gabriel to Sam.

“Everything all right, sir?”

“Fine.” Gabriel somehow managed to keep his voice even. “We found a bloody sweatshirt in the trash can. There is blood sprayed across the mirror. I want samples taken from both and sent to the labs ASAP. And next time, O’Neal, kindly make sure you do a proper sweep of the crime scene.”

The detective flushed and nodded, and Gabriel shoved his hands in his pockets and walked from the room. He heard Sam murmur something to O’Neal, then her footsteps as she followed.

He punched the elevator button. She stopped behind him, her gaze burning deep into his back.

“If you’ve got something to say, then say it,” she said. “Don’t take your anger out on other people.”

Normally, he didn’t, but she had an uncanny knack of seeing what others didn’t, and it both irritated and alarmed him. He turned to face her.

“I’m not Jack. I’m not using you for my own purposes. If I were, I’d keep you as a partner.”

She crossed her arms, her expression cynical. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

It wasn’t supposed to make her feel anything. “Sam, that birth certificate Jack gave you might be a fake.”

“I know that.”

“Then you should realize that the only true clue we may ever get lies in uncovering whatever that unknown chromosome in your system is. Remember, someone looped Finley’s computer to stop us from accessing the test results. They may very well have bombed Central Security for the same reason.” He hesitated, then added, “Damn it, Sam, don’t you
want
to know what you are?”

She rubbed her arms and stared at him for several moments. “
Who
I am, yes.
What
I am? I don’t know.” Her voice was soft, face troubled. “I really don’t know.”

“Then you’d better decide quickly. People died because of the secrets in your past. How many more have to do so before you find the courage to face what you might be?”

She stiffened. “You’re a bastard, do you know that?”

“Maybe I am. But at least I’m a realistic bastard.”

They waited in silence for the elevator, then got in and headed back to the ground floor. She led the way out of the building. The rain pelted down, a cold gray curtain that quickly drenched them both. Not that she seemed to take much notice as she marched up the street to the nearest cab rank.

“What now?” she muttered, once they were both inside the cab.

“Now we go back to my place and view the security tapes from both Harry Maxwell’s building and this one.” The address he punched into the console was hers—she’d catch a cold, or worse, if she stayed in her current clothes, and he didn’t have anything that would even come close to fitting her.

“Well, gee, don’t
you
know how to show a girl a good time?”

He ignored the sarcasm in her voice. “We’ll stop and get some takeout, too. There’s not much in the way of edible food at my place.”

“There’s a surprise.”

She crossed her arms and stared out the side window, angry as all hell and fighting not to show it. He ran a hand through his wet hair and half-wished he could take back the words he’d said in anger. But, damn it, if she didn’t start investigating just who and what she was, all hell could break loose. Her psychic gifts were coming to the surface. Why that was happening now, when she was almost thirty, he didn’t know. But Sethanon had feared the emergence of those gifts enough to place at least one guard on her—though, oddly enough, he seemed reluctant to harm her physically.

It made no sense. Nothing about her past made any sense.

But he had a bad feeling they’d better start finding some answers. Jack had warned them that a war was starting, a war in which Sethanon planned to subjugate the human race as well as any nonhumans who sided with them, and he had a feeling Sam was a key to what might happen. Why else would Sethanon be so interested in her? And if she
was
a key, then he sure as hell was going to keep forcing her to chase her past and the memories she’d lost. Because they could be very important for everyone’s survival. So perhaps she was right. Perhaps he
was
no better than Jack.

Except that she’d liked Jack. And she sure as hell did not like
him
.

Which was a damn shame, because if she weren’t his partner, he would have been tempted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

Sam leaned back in the chair and stretched. She’d been sitting at this console for close to ten hours and her butt felt numb. As numb as her mind.

She rubbed her forehead. The ache had set in behind her eyes again, and her stomach was beginning to cramp—probably as a result of all the coffee Gabriel had given her in the last few hours.

It was time to give her eyes another break. Sighing, she turned away from the console. His apartment wasn’t what she’d expected. Given his long hours, and the time he spent working on Federation projects, she’d expected his apartment to be sterile—a place where he came to sleep and regain strength, and nothing more.

Situated in Parkville, opposite the grand old Royal Park, the two-story apartment block was a carefully renovated remnant of the Victorian age. Gabriel owned the whole top floor, and the view from the front windows was a sea of green. It was like living in the treetops, she mused, and wondered if that was why he’d bought it. Perhaps it appeased some need in his hawk soul.

The color scheme within the apartment complemented the leafy view, with sandstone-colored walls and faded turquoise doors and frames. Brightly patterned rugs were scattered across the polished floorboards, topped by dark blue leather sofas that had seen better times. It reminded her of the southwestern décor in Stephan’s house and yet, oddly enough, there were no photos of Stephan here—no photos of
any
family. Maybe it was a precautionary measure. Maybe he didn’t want to risk anyone breaking in and discovering just whom he was related to. Certainly that information wasn’t available on any computer; she’d checked the SIU files some weeks back.

Gabriel himself used the com-unit in the kitchen. His long legs, crossed at the feet, were stretched out under the table. No doubt he’d wander back in soon with more coffee to keep her awake.

The com-unit pinged softly. The tape had finished rewinding. She turned around. “Fast-forward to twelve fifteen, then play.”

The murderer must have arrived sometime between then and twelve thirty. The doctor had patients booked up until twelve. Allowing the usual ten or fifteen minutes per patient, the last appointment would have walked out around twelve fifteen. The postman—or woman, as was the case here—had walked in at twelve eighteen, and the doctor had been alive and alone.

“Playing,” the com-unit intoned.

She leaned sideways against the desk, propping her head up with her hand. This was the fourth time she’d watched this particular run of film. She could just about cue each person.

Yawning hugely, she watched the postwoman, dressed in a yellow raincoat, carry a handful of letters and a small parcel into the doctor’s office. On the far edge of the screen, a man in a badly cut blue suit headed toward the stairs. Nothing further happened for a good five minutes; then the lunchtime rush began.

The yellow-clad postwoman walked back out. She glanced at the clock. Twelve twenty-two. After that, nothing. People moved in and out of the foyer, but no one went near the doctor’s office. The initial report set the time of death as twelve thirty-one—nine minutes after the postwoman had left. Given the extent of the doctor’s wounds, and the fact that she’d died reasonably quickly, it was doubtful whether the postwoman could have been involved. Besides, there wasn’t a speck of blood to be seen on her uniform.

“Rewind tape to twelve twenty-two.”

The computer hummed briefly. “Tape rewound.”

“Find an ID on this woman.” She pointed to the postwoman. Her details were probably in the initial report, but Gabriel had the folder and she didn’t want to walk across the room to check.

“Search started.”

She yawned again and glanced at her watch. It was nearly two o’clock. Surely Gabriel would let her go home soon and get some rest. Twelve hours had just about passed and she seriously needed sleep. Her brain felt like mush.

The tape continued running. She leaned on her hand again and watched it. People flowed through the foyer. A sandwich trolley came out of the elevator and was briefly mobbed by those few who didn’t go out for lunch. She rubbed her forehead again, trying to ease the growing ache between her eyes. It didn’t help.

“Gabriel, have you got any painkillers?”

“Yep. Hang on, and I’ll get you some.” His chair scuffed against the floorboards, then his footsteps moved across the kitchen. She returned her gaze to the screen. And saw the doctor walk out of the office.

At twelve forty-eight.

Seventeen minutes after she’d been murdered.

T
HE KILLER WAS A MULTI-SHIFTER,
Sam thought, staring at the woman on the screen. The counterfeit doctor wore a knee-length white coat and carried a plastic bag in her right hand. She kept her head down, loose brown hair all but covering her face, and headed quickly for the stairs.

“Rewind tape one minute, then freeze,” she said, and glanced up as Gabriel walked into the room. “I think I’ve found your killer.”

He handed her two painkillers and a glass of water, then leaned over the back of her chair and studied the image frozen on the com-screen.

“A shapeshifter?”

“A multi-shifter,” she corrected, “not that it comes as much of a surprise. You said in your report that you suspected a shifter was involved.”

He squatted down beside her chair, his face almost level with hers. “We suspected it, but this is the first evidence we’ve found to confirm it.”

She frowned. “You found nothing on any of the other tapes?”

“No.” His breath washed warmth across her face. “No evidence of anyone going in. The only form of exit appears to be the small hole cut into the bathroom windows.”

“But that makes no sense.” If the killer was a multi-shifter, how the hell was she getting away from the crime scene if not through any doors? “A small hole cut in a window points toward a shapechanger, not a shifter. Can someone be both?”

“Yes, but there are only three registered in Australia, and all those are accounted for.”

“But isn’t it possible that one or two have been missed?”

“Maybe.” He scrubbed a hand across the dark line of stubble on his chin. “Did anyone enter the office close to the time of the murder?”

“The postwoman, but she came out at twelve twenty-two. I’ve begun an ID search.”

“Good. Have you checked the tapes for the seventh floor?”

“Not yet.”

He looked at the screen. “Display tape seven. Fast-forward to twelve forty-eight p.m.”

The screen went blank. Gabriel went against current trends, having no character as the face of his com-units. No time for fun, she thought, even for something as minor as that.

The seventh-floor tape began to roll. The counterfeit doctor came into sight, quickly disappearing into the ladies’ restroom. She was out four minutes later, hair wet but tied back off her face and still wearing the white coat. The elevator answered her call almost immediately. The doctor joined several other people already standing in the lift and was whisked away.

“Why keep the coat?” She met his gaze. “Why not dump it with the sweater?”

“Maybe she had nothing else to wear.”

“But why not? This woman is meticulous. She gets in and out of crime scenes without being spotted—at least not until now. She knows there are security cams watching, and she knows how to get around them. Her timing with the doctor was perfect. So why wouldn’t she pack a change of clothes?”

A smile touched his lips. “There’s a limit to what you can hide when you shift form, you know.”

She raised her eyebrows. “There is?”

He nodded. “Clothes don’t change. Nor do watches, or shoes or bloodstained sweaters. The body image is all that shifts.”

“But what about shapechangers? You grow feathers and talons, for Christ’s sake. And I’ve never seen you wearing size-ten boots in your hawk form.”

His smile widened, touching the corners of his eyes. “Nor will you. The rules vary for changers. No one knows why. It’s just a fact that whatever we carry on our person becomes integrated within the animal persona.”

“Weird.” She frowned at the screen for a moment. “But that still doesn’t answer my original question.”

“You suggested in the doctor’s office that the killer was angry. Maybe she didn’t bring a change of clothes simply because she thought she was in control—until confronted by the doctor wearing a white coat.”

“So our killer has an unpleasant history with doctors, might be a doctor herself, and is definitely a multi-shifter.” She met his gaze. This close, flecks of green gleamed in the warm hazel depths of his eyes. “How many multi-shifters has the SIU got on file?”

“Worldwide? Several hundred, at least.”

“I thought you said multi-shifters were rare.”

“They are, compared to the number of regular shifters.”

“Yeah, right.” What other half-truths had he fed her? “How many of those have twins?”

He shrugged. “Twins run in families. It’s not a side effect of being a shifter.”

“So the first thing we do is search the files and see how many multi-shifter twins we have on record.”

The warmth fled from his face. “The first thing
you
do,” he corrected softly. “After you get some sleep, that is.”

He was locking her out again—not that she was entirely surprised. He’d warned her of his intentions, after all.

“You can push as far as you like. I’m not quitting and I’m not giving up.” Despite an effort to keep her voice flat, a hint of anger crept in. It was tempting,
so
tempting, to add that she wasn’t going to die on him like his other partners had, but she held back. Maybe it was cowardice, or maybe it was instinct, but something suggested it was better
not
to say anything until he did.

He didn’t reply, but simply rose to his feet and held out a hand.

She ignored it and rose. She brushed past him, trying to ignore the tingling warmth that resulted from such a brief contact, and walked over to the coffee table to collect her bag. “There’s a cab rank down the street. I’ll catch a ride there.”

“It’s two thirty in the morning.”

“And I’m a cop with a gun. I think I can manage to survive a three-minute walk in the dark.”

“I have no problem driving you home.”

“But I have.” She snorted softly, then added, “You can’t play it both ways, Gabriel.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I am merely offering you a ride home. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Fine,” he muttered, and made an oddly violent motion with his hand. “Go, then.”

She walked out. And, for the second time in twenty-four hours, slammed a door shut with wall-shaking force.

Gabriel grabbed his coat, then set his apartment’s alarm sensors as he walked out the door. Once he reached the street, he changed shape and soared into the night skies.

He had no doubt Sam could survive the three-minute walk to the cab rank. Under normal conditions, he’d expect her to survive just about anything the streets could throw at her. But in the last twenty-four hours she’d been given an overdose of Jadrone and had had very little sleep. Her reflexes, strength, even alertness would be compromised. If someone
did
actually want to take her out, it would be the perfect time.

He spotted her within minutes—an angry-looking shadow striding toward the cab rank. He circled slowly while she climbed into the vehicle, then followed it through the quiet city streets.

She got home without incident. He waited until the lights went on in her apartment, then wheeled away and headed for his brother’s place in Toorak.

A bleary-eyed Stephan opened the door as Gabriel walked up the steps.

“Do you know what time it is?” Stephan asked.

“Yeah. It’s time for a drink.” Gabriel stopped on the top step and regarded his twin steadily. The shadows under Stephan’s eyes were darker than ever, but at least he no longer looked like death. “Why are you up?”

“Lyssa’s been throwing up half the night.”

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “She’s close to term. Shouldn’t the morning sickness be over by now?”

“It should be. And the term ‘morning sickness’ is definitely a misnomer.” He stepped aside. “Let’s go into the study.”

Gabriel followed Stephan through the marbled entrance hall. It was hard to believe that only three months ago, this house had been little more than a crater in the ground. Everything was the same, right down to the knickknacks that lined the bookcase shelves.

Stephan closed the study door and walked to the bar. “Whiskey?”

“Double. No ice.”

Stephan raised an eyebrow. “Trouble with the case?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Gabriel accepted his drink and swallowed half of it in one gulp. The liquid burned its way down his throat, hitting his stomach with the force of a hot brick. Not wanting to answer that particular question just yet, he said, “How are things going with Lyssa?”

Stephan shrugged. “As well as can be expected, given I was fucking another woman for six months.”

“She could hardly blame you when that woman was her exact replica.”

“Not exact.” Stephan grimaced and took a long drink. “There were differences in behavioral patterns when I think about it. I should have picked them up.”

“Hindsight is a wonderful thing.”

“And all-hours puking isn’t. Her feeling like hell isn’t helping the situation.” He swirled his drink around in his glass for a moment. “So, why are you here?”

“Because I hate being a bastard.”

Stephan sat on the sofa and crossed his legs. “We’re talking about your treatment of Sam?”

He nodded.

“Then the solution is simple. Stop being a bastard.”

“The solution is simple, all right. You can transfer her to another section. Or another agent.”

“I’ve already told you that’s not going to happen.”

Gabriel met his brother’s gaze. Stephan smiled, though the smile never touched his eyes.

“You work too well together, Gabriel. It’s almost instinctive, the way you two interact, and that’s extremely rare.”

“My partners have a horrible tendency to die in the line of duty. I told you the last time it happened that I will not go through that again.” He downed more whiskey.

“If she is fated to die, it will happen, whether or not she’s your partner.”

Gabriel finished the whiskey and slammed the glass down on the desk. Thrusting his hands into his pockets and unable to keep still, he began to pace.

“It damn well almost happened today.”

Stephan frowned. “I read a report that mentioned her involvement in a disturbance at a nightclub. The owner’s in intensive care.” He hesitated. “Did she put him in there?”

“No. She went there to interview him, as he was apparently Harry Maxwell’s regular Jadrone supplier.”

Stephan’s frown deepened. “Harry was human. Jadrone shouldn’t affect him.”

“That’s exactly what I said. But according to her, Harry was a regular user—and one she’d busted frequently. The only reason he never ended up with a rap sheet was because Frank kept getting the charges dropped.”

“But Frank’s human, and I’m pretty sure his wife is, as well.”

“And according to Sam’s profile, she’s also human, but she was given enough Jadrone to kill an elephant changer and it affected her the way it would affect any changer. The doctors who looked after her have no idea how she actually survived.”

“The fact that she was given Jadrone suggests that whoever did the administering knew she was something other than human. And that begs the question: how? Especially given you, as a changer, should have sensed the changer in her.”

“I know.” Gabriel paused, thinking back to what she’d said. “I think the answer to why she was drugged is simple. According to Sam, she ordered the owner to tell his girlfriend to change shape. Yet the owner hadn’t told her his girlfriend was amongst the other birds flying around.”

Stephan frowned. “But why was she given Jadrone rather than simply being left to die in the fire like the owner?”

“That I don’t know, and I’m afraid she was too loopy from the Jadrone to really remember anything useful about the attack.”

“But you’ll question her when she’s recovered?”

“Of course.” Gabriel walked across to the window and stared at the moon-washed garden. “Something else happened today, though. Something that worries me.”

“What?”

He hesitated, wondering if he was doing the right thing coming here tonight, talking about this with his twin. If nothing else, it would open old wounds between them.

“I was in Melton when the attack on Sam happened,” he said, after a moment, “but I felt the blow to her head, and the pain of the Jadrone burning through her body, as if it were happening to me.”