The Darkest Kiss (4 page)

I reached out telepathically as I asked the question and linked lightly to Rosy’s mind. Her thoughts were a confusion of sadness and grief for her boss as well as worry about her age and whether she’d actually find another job. I couldn’t find anything resembling lies or half-truths, or anything she was concealing. So I gently withdrew.

She took a sip of coffee, then frowned. “Like what?”

“Well, had he been sick recently? Had he received any threats? Had anything unusual happened in the last week or so?”

“No. To all of that.”

“Then for the moment, there isn’t much more you can help me with.” I waved the cop back over, then added, “I’ll get the officer to take you home, if you like.”

Said officer didn’t look too happy at being relegated to chauffeur duties, but Rosy looked pleased. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

I picked up my coffee and the uneaten bit of cake, then said my good-byes and got out of there. I munched the chocolate cake as I walked back up the stairs, leaving a trail of crumbs behind me.

Cole looked up as I reentered the office. “You expect me to just fall into bed with you, and yet you didn’t even have the decency to get me a cup of coffee? Women these days. So selfish.”

I grinned. “Yep, it’s all about me and my appetites, buddy boy, not yours.”

Amusement briefly touched the blue of his eyes. “What can I do for you now?”

“You seen a Rolodex?”

He waved a hand toward the desk. “Second drawer.”

I dumped my coffee on the desk, then put on some gloves before opening the drawer and retrieving the Rolodex. Alana’s address was indeed listed under T for Trollops. In fact, there were a total of seven women listed. Gerard had obviously been making his way through the Trollop ranks. I jotted down all their names and addresses, then retrieved my coffee and nodded a good-bye to Cole. I was almost out the door when I remembered what Rosy had said about clothes, and stopped.

“Cole, have you found Gerard’s clothes yet?”

He answered without looking up. “Yeah, they’re neatly stacked up in the bathroom.”

“Really?”

I couldn’t help the surprise in my voice, and he looked up with a smile. “Yeah. I suspect our boy is a bit of a neat-freak. Both offices are extraordinarily tidy.”

“Except there was nothing neat about what they were doing last night.”

“Well, no, but then, not even a politician would expect sex to be neat.” He paused to pick up a strand of hair and place it in the bag. “The bathroom window is broken, though, which is odd.”

That raised my eyebrows. “So if our killer was a cat-shifter, she could have escaped that way?”

“If it wasn’t for the five-story fall to the pavement, yes.” His voice was edged with exasperation. “It’ll be in my report. If I ever get to finish my report, that is.”

I knew a hint when it clubbed me
that
hard. So I turned around and headed back downstairs.

Once in my car, I switched on the onboard computer and typed in Alana’s name, looking for anything we had on her. As luck would have it, there was practically nothing. The worst thing she’d ever done in her life was being late to pay a speeding ticket. The Trollops might be hard-loving, life-enjoying women, but it seemed this one, at least, was basically law-abiding.

I double-checked that the address we had listed was the same as the one in the Rolodex, then started up the car and headed off.

To say Toorak was a well-to-do suburb would be the understatement of the year. Only millionaires and over could afford to live there—though in recent times, some of the more affluent had been moving out to the trendier beachside suburbs like Brighton.

The only time I came to Toorak willingly was to visit Dia—a psychic who was on the Directorate’s payroll who’d become a friend—or to go window-shopping along Chapel Street. Actually buying anything more expensive than a coffee was out of the question—the Directorate didn’t pay us
that
well—and even the coffee came with a higher than normal price tag in this suburb.

The strident blast of a horn brought my attention back to the road, and I swerved to avoid an oncoming car. Ignoring the rather animated gestures from the driver, I flicked the computer over to satnav and let it guide me to Alana’s.

It turned out she didn’t live in one of the leafy acre blocks that populated the money end of Toorak, but given her apartment was near the Yarra River end of Kooyong Road, it would still carry a million-dollar price tag. At least.

I climbed out of the car and looked up at the building. It was only three stories high and modern in design, all concrete and windows. The floors weren’t built directly onto each other, but at slight angles, giving everyone a view and the building an ill-stacked look.

Not ugly, not stunning, just another building that would probably get knocked down and replaced by something bigger and grander in another twenty years. That seemed to be the way in Toorak of late. Even Dia had received offers for her beautiful old house—apparently the plan was to knock it down and build grand-looking apartments that could be flogged for millions each. Dia had so far resisted the temptation—for which I was grateful, because I loved her place. It was such a warm and relaxing home to visit—especially when compared to the bombsite that was my apartment. A good housekeeper I wasn’t. Neither was my brother—though he tended to be far tidier than me.

I locked the car and headed in. My phone rang as I jogged up the front steps, and I stopped at the top to dig it out of my purse.

The minute I hit receive, a sharp voice said, “How many times have I told you that the Directorate is not your personal answering service?”

I grinned. There was no mistaking that voice—it belonged to Salliane, the vamp who’d taken my place as guardian liaison and Jack’s main assistant. “And how lovely it is to hear your dulcet tones again.”

“Bite me, wolf girl,” she snapped back. Obviously, Jack wasn’t in the room, or else she’d be all sweetness and light. Sal wanted to get into Jack’s shorts something bad, and I guess she figured bad-mouthing the boss’s favorite guardian while he was in hearing range wasn’t going to help her efforts.

Of course, I pretty much figured nothing would—not only was there his own ruling to consider, but Jack had been holding firm for months now against some pretty sultry onslaughts, and I very much doubted giving in was in the cards in the near future. But it was fun watching her try. And fail.

“Sal darling, nothing in this world would get me to bite you. And what’s this about personal messages?”

“I’ve got one here from a Ben Wilson. He says it’s urgent and asks if you could call him immediately.”

I frowned. “Ben Wilson? I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“He says otherwise.”

Which didn’t exactly help. I shifted from one foot to the other and watched a woman in ultra-high, ultra-red stilettos toddle past. My nose twitched. She smelled of rum and cigarette smoke. “Is that all he said?”

“No, he said something about remembering Shadow, whatever the hell that is.”

The name clicked. Ben was Shadow, a big, black wolf who managed Nonpareil, a stripper business that catered—as both strippers and studs—to human and nonhuman parties alike. I’d met him briefly while investigating a case a few months ago, and while we’d shared an attraction, I’d been with Kellen at the time and had promised to remain faithful to him.

Fat lot of good it had done me, too.

I blew out a breath, pushed away the lingering remnants of heartache, and said, “Did he leave a phone number?”

“He did. But this is the last time I’m relaying personal messages.”

“It’s not personal. It’s business.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, because I actually had no idea what Ben wanted. I doubted if it would be personal, though. Not after all this time.

She grunted. “Not believing that for an instant, wolf girl.” She rattled off a phone number. “He also said you can contact him via the office if there’s no answer on his cell.”

“You’re such a sweetie, Sal.”

“You know where you can shove being a sweetie,” she said and hung up.

I chuckled softly. Jack had told me numerous times to stop being such a bitch around Sal, but baiting that woman was just too much fun to let it go.

I dialed the number she’d given me. It rang several times, then a deep voice said, “Ben Wilson speaking.”

“Ben, it’s Riley Jenson, returning your call.”

“Thank you for calling back.” There was more than a touch of relief in his rich tones. “I know you don’t know me or anything, but I’m in need of some help, and you’re the only guardian I know.”

Well, at least I’d been right before. It
was
business. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, then wanted to smack myself for even thinking the latter.

“What sort of help?” I said, perhaps a touch more sharply than I’d intended.

He hesitated. “One of our strippers has just been murdered.”

“Then call the police.”

“I have. They’re treating it as low priority.”

“Why?”

“Because Denny was a known participant in the BDSM scene, and his death looks like sex-play gone wrong.”

“And if he was into that scene, they might just be right.”

“Except for the fact that Denny only dabbled in BDSM. What really got his rocks off was asphyxiophilia.”

I frowned. “Which is?”

“Erotic asphyxiation. Only he wasn’t found hanging from his neck, he was found hanging by his wrists, with his back and stomach stripped.”

“He got off by trying to kill himself?” That didn’t sound like very much fun to me. There again, neither did having my back and stomach beaten so badly that the flesh peeled away.

“He didn’t do autoerotic asphyxiation. He was always—
always
—with a partner.”

Something Ben couldn’t actually be sure of, unless he was there each and every time. And as frank and as open as wolves were about sex, most of us didn’t go blathering to all and sundry about each and every sexual exploit. “Did police find any indication of a partner in the apartment?”

“No, although there had to be one given the state of his body.”

“So what do you want me to do? Try and find the partner?”

“I want the truth of what happened. Finding the partner would be a good start, yes.”

“I’ll need to get in his apartment.” Smell the smells, see if his soul was hanging about for a chat. Though not all souls did, as evidenced by Gerard.

“I have a key. I can let you in.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a key to all your employees’ apartments?”

“No, just those who are into the more dangerous stuff.”

“You mean there’re sexual fetishes more dangerous than trying to strangle yourself?”

“Maybe not as dangerous, but certainly walking the edge, yes.”

I walked across to the apartment building’s main doors and pressed the buzzer for apartment 1B. While I waited for Alana to answer, I asked, “How long ago did he actually die?”

“Yesterday. He didn’t turn up for work today, so I called in on the way home. That’s when I found him.”

So at least twenty-four hours had passed, if not more. I wrinkled my nose. The chances of the dead man’s soul hanging about were slim. Even if he was there, the odds that I’d actually understand him were practically nil. To date, it seemed that the fresher the kill, the stronger I could see or hear the soul—and vice versa.

“The police took your statement, I presume.” I pressed the buzzer again, then stepped back and looked up. No one answered, and there didn’t seem to be any movement or sound evident from either of the first-floor apartments.

“Yes, they did. You can double-check it if you think I’ve been lying about anything.”

I smiled. “Oh, I will, but not because I think you’re lying. I want to see what the cops and coroner all thought.”

“I didn’t think coroners worked that fast.”

“It depends on the situation.” And in this one, it could be days before a full report came out. He was right on one thing—BDSM deaths stood side by side with suicides at the bottom of the priority list when it came to cause-of-death examinations. Still, they’d have initial impressions, and those would be in the case notes. “Where are you now?”

“Home.”

I gave the intercom buzzer one final push. Still no answer. Alana was either out or working. “Can you get to your mate’s place quickly?”

“Be there in fifteen.” He gave me the address, then added, “I really do appreciate this.”

“You owe me a coffee. And I hope you realize there may be nothing I can do.”

“I know.”

“Meet you there, then.” I hung up, then shoved my cell back into my purse and headed down to my car. Ben’s dead friend lived in Prahan, which wasn’t that far away, even with the late-afternoon traffic going nowhere fast.

I got there with a few minutes to spare. Ben was nowhere to be seen, so I leaned against the trunk of my car and studied the building. It was one of those boring brick designs that were put up in the latter part of the twentieth century—a basic straight-up-and-down affair with few windows and little imagination. Someone had recently painted it cream, and there were neatly trimmed hedges along the front and the sides, but the greenery didn’t do a whole lot to relieve the blandness.