A Voice in the Dark

That he hadn’t succeeded in his bid would make the lives of everyone in the office hell for a good long while, but as Angel saw it, life was all about facing challenges. Another one more or less wasn’t likely to affect her day.

“Five of the victims came from Massachusetts,” Brian continued now. “Two from Philadelphia. Three of the Massachusetts five lived in Boston. The others were from Danvers and New Bedford. Does that help you, or is your head still wobbling from that scrap you had this morning?”

“My head’s fine.” She rubbed her nape. “If the same guy’s responsible for Foret’s death, Bri, that pushes the Boston count to four, and both Danvers and New Bedford are an easy drive, so there’s a better than average chance the killer lives here.”

“Cheery thought, huh?”

“Yeah, if you’re in L.A.” She broke off a chunk of bread, but didn’t eat it. “Some suspects would be good. So far, everyone we’ve connected to Foret is either alibied or out of reach. Case in point, his pal the Secretary.”

“Guy’s clean enough as politicians go.”

Angel grinned. “Glad to know it.” Then sighed. “You’re profiling, aren’t you?”

“My free time’s my own.” He sounded defensive and angry. “Bergman gave the job to Pruneface—Bill Skater. The guy has one speed: turtle.”

“He’s also Bergman’s brother-in-law. Do the math.”

“Did that creep at Foret’s do something to your neck?” Liz asked.

“I—no.” Angel frowned. “Why?” Then she realized she was rubbing the same spot again.

Still holding the phone, she peered around the side of the booth, but saw only tables, more booths and a roomful of people who were paying no attention to anything except their food.

“What?” Liz followed her gaze.

“Someone’s watching us.”

Her friend tugged her back by her hair. “Eat your stew, Angel. A full stomach’ll make the feeling go away.”

“I know how hungry feels, and it isn’t hallucinogenic.” She made another quick circuit. “Brian, does the killer stalk his victims?”

“Ask Skater.”

She forced patience. “I’m asking you.”

“Don’t they all?”

“Okay, well that doesn’t make me feel any better, actually. Liz, we need to lose the Goth cafés for a while.”

“Food’s good at this one.” Liz spooned up more stew. “Not that you’d know, since all you’ve done is play with your bread.”

“Oh, hell.” Angel’s eyes fixed on the door. “Paul Reuben just slithered in. And he’s wearing his media hat.”

“There’s the last bite done, thank you, God.” Liz wiped her mouth and fingers. “How does he always know?”

“Afternoon, ladies.” At Liz’s exasperated look, he pressed an exaggerated hand to his chest. “What am I supposed to say? Afternoon, Feds?”

Angel smiled. “‘I just stopped in to say good-bye’ works.”

“Thanks, I’d love to join you.” He scraped a chair across the floor and straddled it.

“You know, Paul, it’s just possible we’re busy here.” Angel waved her cell phone. “You want a story, talk to Bergman’s assistant. That’s why he’s there.”

Paul Reuben’s flinty eyes gleamed. “Is Noah Graydon helping you with your busy work?”

“Go away.” She enunciated the words, then smacked at his hand. “Touch my lunch, and I’ll cite you for something really unpleasant.”

When her skin continued to prickle, she glanced around again. An old man in a hat with earflaps stared back at her. So did a much younger one with a heavily pierced face.

“Do me a favor, Paul, take a stroll and check out the booths.”

“For what?”

“Perverts, peeping Toms.” She summoned a sweet smile. “Murderers.”

“Like the one who offed Lionel Foret early Sunday morning behind a dockside processing plant?”

“There you go. If you know that much, you’re as up to date as we are. Bye.”

“Cut the guy some slack, Angel,” Brian suggested on the phone. “He might know something.”

“He might also be fishing.”

“What’s the deal with Graydon?” the reporter persisted. “Is he in or out? Give me that much at least.”

Angel rested her chin on her fist, let her smile ride. “How did you hear about Foret, Paul?”

“I got a tip.”

“Where and from whom?”

“None of your business—on both counts.”

“Okay then, we’re done. Drive carefully.”

He appealed to Liz. “Your husband’s tight with Graydon, right?”

Elbows on the table, Liz pushed on her temples. “You know, I didn’t have a headache when I came in.”

Paul started slurping hot coffee—and Angel found her own fingers straying under her hair again.

Determined to shake the sensation, she returned her attention to Brian. “Do I know yet why you called?”

“Not unless you’re a mind reader. I’ve been instructed to tell you that Bergman’s staying over in Washington. He tried your cell, but the line was tied up. Would that have been before or after your run-in with a sleeping vagrant?”

“Street person, and he topped your two-thirty by a good ten pounds.”

“Using?”

“Definitely.”

“You know, I was once as quick as you are, and as elusive as Noah Graydon when I chose to be.”

“You sound bitter, Bri.” Sliding to the end of the booth, she made another casual sweep of the restaurant. “Get some physio, get in shape and presto, you’re back in the field.”

“On restricted duty. No thanks, kid. Don’t forget to check in with Bergman’s lackey before you go off shift. And have fun detaching your investigative burr.”

Angel ended the call with a distracted press of the button. Her eyes traveled from table to table. “Got to be coming from a booth. I can see everyone else.”

Reuben waved a hand in front of her face. “Why the space flight, Angel?”

Looking back, she noted that his mustache, blonde and perpetually droopy, was saturated with coffee. “Trust me, Paul, there are times when outer space is preferable to planet Earth.”

He snagged her wrist as someone in black brushed past. “If you won’t talk about Graydon, explain the pennies on Foret’s eyelids.”

Liz breathed out. “Don’t you have…?” Then she stopped, met Angel’s eyes, and bent forward over the table. “Well, well, Mr. Reuben.”

At a similar look from Angel, the reporter released her. “Okay, why have you two turned cat all of a sudden?”

But he knew. Angel could tell by the dull red flush creeping up his neck that he understood exactly what he’d done.

Smiling, she crooked a leg up and turned companionably toward him. “Playing dumb isn’t your strong suit, PR. Guess what? There was no mention of any pennies in our official statement. Only a handful of people saw the body, and those who did wouldn’t have talked. So—” Brows arched, she cocked her head to observe. “How is it you managed to find out about them?”

THE DAY AFTER A DEATH always felt long—going through the motions, controlling jitters, concentrating. Slipping up was too damned easy, in big ways and in small.

But things had to be put right, and no one else appeared to want the job.

Someone would have to take it on, though, because the end was approaching. Fast. The Thanksgiving season seemed an appropriate time for the finale. Give thanks to the only person who understood.

Extra caution would be needed to pull this last one off. Extra caution and nerves of steel.

An image swam up, solidified. No second thoughts. No regrets. It must and would be done.

Target date: Third week of November.

Target victim: Angel Carter.

Chapter Four

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.”