Boston Cream Killer: Book 8 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series (11 page)

Once inside, he strode briskly into the damp interior of the castle, which was dark, despite the daylight outside its doors, and made his way to the ratty chair in which Wendell Shropshire, Earl of Halsbury, spent most of his time. Kosta was on his heels, and made the mistake of putting a hand on the Marine’s shoulder, attempting to restrain him. Spencer reached up, lightning-fast and grabbed the servant’s hand. He spun quickly, and in a blur of motion, had the bulky man’s wrist pinned between his shoulder blades, immobilized. Pushing him over to the fireplace, Spencer stared at the earl, who made a face.

“This again?” he sighed, clearly remembering his last encounter with the Marine. “Let him go, he’ll behave himself,” the pale, thin man with colorless hair waved dismissively.

“Kosta, go get a glass for our guest,” he ordered, holding up a bottle of scotch.

The servant glared at Spencer, rubbing his wrist, and left the room.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Wendell droned sarcastically, taking a slug of scotch straight from the bottle.

“I think you know exactly why I’m here,” the Marine replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re going to start talking and you’re going to tell me everything that I need to know, because it’ll get very unpleasant for you if you don’t,” he took a pair of black leather gloves out of a pocket in his cargo pants and pulled them on, flexing his fingers.

“Now, look… there’s no need for…” the earl began, but was cut off by the reappearance of his servant.

“You need me to take care of this?” the muscular man asked his boss.

Spencer smirked.

“No, Kosta, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Wendell looked irritated. “Just give the man his drink, for goodness sake,” he waved toward Spencer.

“I don’t want…” the Marine began, but cut his sentence off in a gasp of pain when Kosta tossed the contents of the glass directly into his eyes, making them burn and ooze.

There had been some sort of chemical agent in the liquid, and Spencer found himself hoping that his vision wouldn’t be permanently impaired. His nose and throat were immediately inflamed, and though he wiped at his eyes, making the pain worse, his vision didn’t improve at all. Coughing and choking, he was aware enough of his surroundings to put up his arms to ward off the blow that he could hear coming, but whatever Kosta hit him with was huge, heavy, and hard, knocking him unconscious. His last thought before blinding pain caused him to succumb, was that even if he failed, Missy and Chas would still have Paddy to protect them.

“Beckett, you know that I have to search Spencer Bengal’s apartment,” Detective Jim Reubens said quietly.

“He’s not here to give you permission,” Chas pointed out reasonably.

Jim sighed.

“I can go get a warrant if you really want me to do that, but one way or another, I’m going in there.”

The detective frowned.

“All right, I’ll take you down there,” he agreed finally.

“No, I’m sorry, but you won’t,” Reubens shook his head. “You’re specifically required to not participate in this investigation. I’m sorry, Beckett, but this one just hits too close to home,” his response was kind, but firm.

Chas knew that his colleague was correct. Because he’d known the victim, and evidence existed that made it look like the detective might actually be involved in her death, he’d been relegated to office duty until after the investigation. Never one to sit idly by while others worked, Chas had elected to take a few days off in order to pursue his own investigation. He pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket and slid one of the keys off.

“Here’s the key to his place. Just leave it with Maggie, the innkeeper, when you’re done,” he handed it over.

“Good. I need to talk with her before I leave anyway,” Jim nodded. “Where are you going to be? You know, in case I have questions.”

Chas knew what the detective was doing. He’d obviously been tasked with keeping tabs on his colleague.

“I don’t know. I have some errands to run, and I might go for a swim,” he shrugged.

“Uh-huh,” Jim replied skeptically. “Well, keep your phone on you.”

“Always,” Chas smiled tightly, having no intention of doing so.

***

Jim Reubens unlocked the door to Spencer’s apartment, expecting to find a typical young man’s bachelor pad, with beer cans on the floor, dirty laundry piled up in front of the washer, and dishes in the sink. The sparingly decorated apartment that he entered into was the polar opposite of his expectations. The furnishings were simple, clean-lined and spotless, and nothing was out of place. The faucets in the sink and bathroom had no water spots, and there was not a speck of dust or lint anywhere. The cat box in the utility room was filled with fresh, clean litter, emitting no odor at all, but there was no cat to be found.

Since there were no charges, as yet, against the young Marine, Jim had to wait to call in a forensics team, but from what he saw, he doubted, even if the young man was guilty, that there’d be anything to find. His windows sparkled, his bed was made so well that it looked like a quarter would bounce off of it, and his kitchen floor was entirely devoid of crumbs. Reubens slipped on a nitrile glove and opened the refrigerator, only to find that it too, was immaculate.

After looking in closets, under furniture, and even in the back of the toilet tank, the detective found nothing even remotely incriminating, and decided to go have a chat with Maggie. Once there, he discovered where Spencer’s cat, Moose, had disappeared to. The innkeeper said that he’d been left on her doorstep in his carrier, with all of his supplies. It wasn’t unusual for the Marine to leave town suddenly, and when he did, he dropped Moose off to Maggie in this manner because he usually hit the road long before she woke for the day, even though she was an early riser.

It was another dead end for Jim Reubens, and he was both relieved and frustrated. He really hoped that the killer had nothing to do with Chas Beckett or anyone that he knew, but beyond Chas, Spencer, Kel, and Missy, he had no suspects or persons of interest. Easing into his police sedan, he headed for Betty’s diner. Betty had witnessed Chas and Kel separately getting into verbal altercations with the victim, and he wanted to talk with her again.

***

“Hey, Detective,” Betty motioned Chas over to a spot at the counter where no one was nearby, and poured a cup of coffee before he could even ask. “Jimmy Reubens came by yesterday, asking me about what that out-of-town woman talked with you about. I hated to do it, but I had to tell him that you didn’t exactly part on friendly terms,” she confided, her expression pained.

“No, that’s okay, Betty. You did what you had to do. I’d never expect you to not tell the truth,” Chas reassured her.

“I just can’t believe somebody offed her. I mean, she was rude and obnoxious, but geez… murder?” she shook her head in disbelief. “Any idea who did it?”

“No, that’s why I’m here. Has she been in here and spoken with anyone else? Or has anyone suspicious-looking been lingering around here?” the detective asked.

Betty thought for a moment. “There was this one guy who kinda slipped out from behind the bushes across the street after you left that day. I thought that was sorta strange,” she mused.

“What did he look like?” Chas asked, hopeful that he might get a lead at last.

“Not bad lookin’. Longish dark hair, big muscles, tattoos,” she shrugged. “I didn’t get a real good look. One minute I saw him, the next minute, he had just disappeared.”

Chas sighed inwardly. Betty had just unwittingly described Spencer, who was already well on his way to becoming a suspect. Had the Marine gone too far to protect Chas and Missy? He certainly hoped not, but the detective really had no idea how Chalmers’s shadowy security forces worked.

“Okay, Betty. Thanks,” he reached into his pocket to pay for the coffee.

“Keep your money, Beckett, this one’s on the house,” she waved him away with a look that brooked no nonsense.

“Thanks,” Chas tried to smile. “Oh, and Betty, if Jim Reubens happens to come by…” he began.

“I don’t really recall talking to you since the whole thing went down,” she winked conspiratorially.

“You’re a gem,” the detective grinned.

“Heck yeah I am, a diamond in the rough,” she chuckled. “Now go on home to that pretty wife of yours. Something tells me she could use a hug.”

Izzy Gillmore floated lazily in the cool waters of the Caribbean, eyes closed, enjoying the first vacation that she’d had in a very long time. The sky and water were a brilliant blue and crystal clear, and when she was done taking a relaxing soak in the ocean, she’d sunbathe on a brightly colored lounger, with a fruity frozen drink in hand. Eyes closed, basking in the mid-afternoon sun, she felt the shark before she saw it, as it bit down on her left wrist, tugging at it and sending a sharp searing pain all the way up to her shoulder. She was pulled under the water briefly, and came to the surface sputtering and gasping, terrified and entirely disoriented. She tried to scream, but couldn’t make the sound come from her mouth. She panicked, thrashing, and wondered if she was going to die.

Izzy awoke from the nightmare, her heart pounding, her head aching, and her stomach churning abominably. Her vision was fuzzy, and there was a foul smell in the air, something thick and almost metallic. She blinked several times, all the while trying to calm her breathing. She realized some very disturbing things all at once. She wasn’t in the Caribbean, but she was in water, and her wrist really was throbbing with a searing pain. She felt weak, but as her vision cleared, she raised her head and looked around, finding herself in the tub of her hotel room. She had raised her wrist, which had been viciously slashed, over her head in an attempt to get it away from the shark in her dream, and it had probably saved her life. The metallic smell that assaulted her nostrils was her own blood, a copious amount of which was currently flowing down her arm.

Weak with blood loss and shock, Izzy knew that she had to get help fast, and shakily braced herself with her other hand, gingerly climbing out of the tub on shaking legs. Her foot slipped slightly on the tile that was slick with pooled water and blood, but she managed to catch herself on the vanity so that she fell slowly and didn’t hit her head. She didn’t have the strength to get back on her feet, and the hopelessness of her situation brought her to tears, but she knew that if she wanted to live, she had to get help. In search of her cell phone, she dragged herself from the bathroom.

Someone had ransacked her room; there was strewn clothing and upended furniture everywhere. Her purse had been taken from the foyer table and turned upside down on the floor, its contents scattered. Her cellphone was smashed, as though someone had stepped on it, so she crawled, her left arm elevated and bleeding profusely, toward the end table where the room phone sat. Bringing herself slowly to a sitting position, her back against the side of the sofa, she grabbed the receiver with her right hand, her body trembling from shock, and propped her left hand up on the arm of the sofa. Dialing 911, she found that when she tried to speak, her words were garbled and slurred. The room started to spin, and her vision greyed around the edges for the second time that day. The receiver dropped from her hand and she collapsed against the sofa.

***

Hotel management let the police and ambulance team into Izzy Gillmore’s room with a passkey, and stepped back in horror at the sight that greeted him. The man turned ashen and stumbled from the room, scarred by the single glimpse of the scene.

The patrol officer who entered first sighed and shook his head.

“Suicide,” he muttered to his partner, who nodded.

“Somebody’s gonna be heartbroken tonight.”

***

Spencer Bengal knew enough not to open his eyes or alter his breathing pattern when he regained consciousness. He’d been having a wonderful dream about Izzy that had suddenly turned very dark, and left him feeling unsettled when he awoke. His cheek rested on cold, damp stone, and a cloth that smelled of mildew had been used as a gag. His hands and feet were bound, and his body hurt everywhere. Whether anything had been broken or if he had been seriously injured was hard to say, but his captor apparently had taken great delight in battering him while he’d been unconscious.

He listened hard, trying to hear over the piercing ringing in his ears, and detected no one nearby. The knotted, gnawing feeling in his stomach was all-too familiar, and it meant that, not only had he been unconscious for a while, but he also had been without food or drink. The severe cramping in his muscles might be partially due to severe dehydration, and even if there weren’t a gag in his mouth, he doubted that he would be able to swallow, due to the extreme dryness.

Straining to hear, while making no outward sign of being conscious at all, Spencer faintly heard a low voice that seemed to come from above him, which meant that he was either in the root cellar of the castle, or, more likely, he’d been thrown into what once would’ve once been known as the dungeon, or oubliette. In still-functioning castles, most of these rooms with a dark past had been modernized into everything from media rooms to fitness centers, but even with modifications, they could be dark and lonely places where screams and protests wouldn’t be heard by those in the castle proper.