Mind of the Phoenix (17 page)

“Mr. Edwards,” says Mr. Harrison, rising from his seat. “As we discussed earlier, I’d like you to meet our new instigator for the pleasure house.” He then gestures toward the woman. “This is Miss Josephine.”

Hmmm, no last name. Is that because she doesn’t have a master or because she’s Mr. Harrison’s? And then the realization that he had introduced her as the new instigator completely stuns me. I can just envision the gears whirling in motion in the detective’s mind at this news, and I know that he’s just as surprised as I am.

Miss Josephine nods politely to the detective, and I notice that she doesn’t offer him her hand. “Mr. Edwards, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.”

I glance up at him and see those green eyes regarding the other woman with that unyielding curiosity of his. I turn my gaze back on the woman and find her studying me carefully.

“This is Moira Del Mar,” says Mr. Harrison, and I’m surprised that he has introduced me without using the detective’s last name. But I suppose she’s part of the Elite now so she must know who I am and of my involvement in the Phoenix case. “She’s the one I told you about, who is aiding the detective.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Moira,” she says, carefully avoiding my last name, and this time she
does
hold out her hand.

I narrow my eyes, but place my hand in hers. She doesn’t prod, but, instead, merely brushes her consciousness against mine. It is a way of polite greeting among my kind, and I brush against hers as well before she releases my hand.

“I wanted to keep the position filled by a woman for particular reasons,” explains Mr. Harrison, his glacial blue eyes on me. “At first I couldn’t find one who wanted to run the pleasure house, but then Mr. Hayes suggested Miss Josephine. She’s a woman and a blocker, so I agreed with Mr. Hayes that she would be best suited for the position.”

Some of the men are regarding Miss Josephine with open contempt, but no one dares voice their opinion in front of Mr. Harrison. Even though he has explained why he has hired her—which is surprising in itself, that he would feel the need to justify his reasons to
me
—I still don’t understand why. She’s an empath, and our kind isn’t allowed to own property, run any sort of business, or exist without a master. I can’t help but also notice that this would be the second time Mr. Hayes has kindly suggested the aid of an empath. I glance at Icarus, who raises his glass slightly at me, and those lips curve into a knowing smile. Was it a calculated move, Mr. Hayes? Or have I misjudged you?

W
hen we enter the mortuary
, Dr. White greets us—or, more accurately, he greets the detective. He is still nervous about my presence, his gaze flickering at me briefly and then quickly away. I glance at his appearance with amusement. He’s either always in a rush or incapable of properly buttoning his vest and aligning his collar accurately. It’s rather endearing. He runs his hands through his ash-blond hair to push it away from his face and gestures for us to follow him into the back room.

I had chosen to skip breakfast this morning, after the detective arrived at the hotel to inform me that there had been another murder last night. After the other time, I don’t think I can keep my food down successfully. I enter the room and immediately cover my nose. The smell of death has been permanently imprinted on my mind, and I force back the memories that threaten to flood my vision. I silently pray for the day when Scott’s ghost stops haunting me. Luckily, I don’t hear either the sound of his voice or the crack of his whip.

There’s only a thin white sheet covering the corpse and I clench my teeth, expecting the worst. Dr. White pulls the sheet back. She must have been pretty in her own way, but her skin has now turned a bluish-grey and the side of her head is covered in dried blood where someone hit her forcefully with an object. Her long dark hair is loose and matted beneath her. Despite the wound on her head, she has the same faint blemishes on her neck that Ginny had.

“Her name was Rebekah Gray,” says Dr. White, standing on the other side of the table. “She was closing up her father’s shop late last night when she was attacked in the alley beside the store.” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “There are obvious signs of rape, and she was hit on the side of the head with a blunt object.”

“Is that how she died?” The sound of Keenan’s voice surprises me with its proximity, reminding me of the way his lips had felt against my neck. I mentally shake myself, aware that this is neither the time nor the place to think about that memory.

Dr. White looks at the body and shakes his head, gesturing to the marks on her neck. “No, she was strangled.” He then lifts up one of Rebekah’s hands. “There is blood beneath her fingernails, which suggests that she fought her assailant.”

“That’s probably why he hit her,” I suggest, my anger rising.

“Perhaps,” says Dr. White. “It could have been done in an attempt to subdue her while–” He breaks off abruptly, clearly not comfortable with finishing his thought.

“Can you see if there is an afterimage, Moira?” asks Keenan.

I nod and place my hand hesitantly on the side of the woman’s face, careful not to touch the blood. I close my eyes and push my way through the darkness. A scene flashes before my mind before vanishing. I see the end of the alley, and then the scene shifts as if Rebekah has turned her head. I catch sight of a dark figure standing in front of her before an object shoots across at her and smashes in the side of her head. Her vision blurs, and I return to the mortuary.

“A revolver,” I blurt, cringing away from the body. “He hit her with the end of a revolver because she had been running away from him.”

Dr. White makes a noise. “I had thought it might have been that.”

“Did you see the killer?”

“No,” I reply in frustration. “It was too dark,
again.
”

The detective regards the body gloomily and then turns to the other man. “Thank you, Dr. White.”

Before we exit, I hastily scrub my hands with soap and hope that there won’t be more dead bodies I’ll have to touch. We walk out of the mortuary and my stomach growls loudly, protesting against my decision to skip breakfast. The sound is loud enough to catch the detective’s attention and I can feel his eyes on me. I try to cover my embarrassment by busily climbing into the motor vehicle. He sits beside me and begins to drive, but, instead of driving back to the police station, he turns the other way.

“Where are we going?”

He glances sideways at me. “To get something to eat.”

He stops in front of the café that we had eaten at several days ago, and I’m amazed by how long ago that seems. I believe that was the day when I began to slowly earn the detective’s trust by choosing not to read his mind when he touched me.

I follow him to the back of the café near the windows and smile when he sits at the exact table we had occupied the last time. He removes his coat, hanging it on a nearby coat rack, and rests his cane against the window. I remove my coat as well and sit across from him. He slowly places his bowler hat on the table and sighs. The slight sound speaks volumes, even if I’m the only one able to hear it. He’s looking worn out again and his index finger begins softly tapping the table. The combination of these two cases is obviously eating away at him. I suspect that in many ways he feels responsible for Rebekah Gray’s death because he hadn’t caught the murderer in time. I’m struck with the need to comfort him and tell him that it’s not his fault, but I’m not sure how.

It is in that moment that I fully understand why he hadn’t said anything in regards to the memory I showed him. Comforting someone should be such a simple act, yet it’s so complicated. You want to offer the person soothing words born of sympathy and compassion, but they seem too meagre for such a colossal sadness. The sound of ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t enough, and is a paltry expression for the pain the person has experienced. But then how do you let the other person know that you are there for them?

I decide then that in many ways physical contact speaks more than words, so I tentatively place my hand over the detective’s and hope that he doesn’t snap at me for touching him without an invitation. A loud drumming sound reverberates in my chest at the contact, and I watch his reaction carefully. Those green eyes, bright from the sunlight streaming through the window, immediately dart toward my hand on top of his and narrow, probably thinking that I intend to invade his mind. Yet he doesn’t retract his hand, and his eyes rise to meet mine. I try not to squirm beneath his unyielding gaze, but fail. How is it that a simple look can contain the same amount of intimacy as a scintillating touch?

“What can I get you, sir?” asks a voice beside me, startling me so much that my hand jumps away from Keenan’s. The server glances at me, curious about my behaviour and the fact that I’m an empath.

“Coffee with the egg platter,” answers the detective calmly, obviously not startled by the server’s sudden appearance.

I order the same thing when the server asks me. I’m embarrassed, because I had yelped pathetically when the server had spoken. My head feels slightly dizzy from shock and from the way Keenan had been looking at me. Thankfully, he doesn’t mention what just happened and, instead, discusses the case.

“The man who killed Ginny and Rebekah is impulsive,” he says thoughtfully. “The first time, his plan played out the way he wanted, but, with Rebekah, I believe he wasn’t expecting her to fight back. And that’s why he had to hit her with his revolver. He could have shot her, but someone would have heard–”

“And would have interrupted him,” I supply. “So, we’re looking for a man who likes to be in control, perhaps insecure, and likes to rape women because it makes him feel superior.”

“Yes, he enjoys what he’s doing,” Keenan says. “He could have gone to the pleasure house to satiate his desires, but I don’t think he agrees with the fact that he has to pay for a woman’s service. And, despite the pleasure house’s many flaws, I know they wouldn’t allow their clients to kill their property.”

“Of course,” I say, smiling deviously. “That would just be bad business.”

“He’s killed twice already in less than two weeks,” he says, and he begins his usual pensive behaviour by tapping the tablecloth. “He’s getting rather impulsive and arrogant. He’s going to mess up somewhere, and when he does it’ll be too late for him.”

“Well, I want to catch this bastard.”

The server returns to pour our coffee, and then leaves. I dispense cream and sugar into the cup and slowly stir, watching the dark liquid turn a lighter shade. I glance up at the detective and notice that he’s watching me stir my coffee with an unusual raptness. At first, I assume that he is lost in thought, but his gaze appears too focused on my hand to be daydreaming. I take a hesitant sip, and he carefully watches my every move.

“So, what did you think of Miss Josephine?” I ask.

He takes a sip of his black coffee. “Are you asking me if I thought her to be amiable, Moira? Or are you asking if I thought her to be attractive?”

His eyes are glimmering with amusement, so I roll my eyes in feigned annoyance. “No, detective, I’m asking you what you think about Mr. Harrison placing her as the Pleasure House Instigator.”

He narrows his brows in thought. “It’s unusual. An empath has never been an instigator before.”

“Is she Mr. Harrison’s property?”

“Yes,” he says. “She’s one of his blockers, but, despite that, I agree with Mr. Harrison’s decision to keep the position filled by a woman.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I have no doubt that if it were a male member of the Elite, they would take advantage of their role as instigator,” answers the detective.

Our food is placed on the table, and we fall silent as we eat. I realize that despite having just seen a dead body, I still have a healthy appetite, and I wonder if that says something negative about me. I shake my head and decide that it is the first rule of survival. If you don’t eat, you don’t survive. Satisfied, I take another sip of my coffee. I’m no longer merely skin and bones, and my strength has returned. I could maybe try to escape sometime soon, but to be honest I want Ginny Parker and Rebekah Gray’s killer caught. The detective was right in that emotions are dangerous when it comes to an investigation. Emotions are volatile—ticking time bombs that can be set off by the simplest thing. It can even be something as simple as a look.

“Aren’t you lonely, detective?” I probe, and he looks up at me.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Well, you’re not married and you don’t have a female companion,” I explain. “I just find it hard to believe that you haven’t taken advantage of the services that the pleasure house provides.”

He slowly lowers his fork and sits back in his chair, those green eyes bright with an emotion I can’t quite get a handle on. “And why would that be hard to believe?”

Perhaps the emotion is anger? Or annoyance?

“Well, you’re a man–”

“Yes, I am,” he interjects quietly, and I feel like he might be mocking me.

I continue, using the phrase that Mr. Hayes had used to justify his visits to the pleasure house. “And you have needs–”

“And what
needs
would those be?” Definitely anger.

“No need to be angry, detective,” I say. “I was just saying that everyone has needs that–”

“Do
you
have such needs?” he asks quietly, and I stare at him. How has he managed to turn this on me?

I’m incapable of looking away from his eyes and feel trapped.

“Yes.”

“So, if you could visit the pleasure house would you pay for one of the males to satisfy those needs?” When I don’t answer, he continues, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “They would do anything you ask them to, Moira. They’ll even
be
whoever you want them to be. Do you prefer blonds or brunettes? Or, perhaps, you like the rarity of a redhead.”

I’m completely speechless—he’s used my exact words against me.

My mind involuntarily travels back to Devin. Men and women alike pay for his services, and I had always been dumbfounded that someone so physically strong could be used in such a way. Of course, he never had a choice, just like me. I miss those strong arms around me, the feel of his broad torso pressed against my back. He was always there to comfort me when I needed it, and I miss him. Comfort, love, a connection—those are things people desire just as much as sex, sometimes even more. Those are things you can’t buy. I hadn’t understood that then, and I hate myself for it. Devin had known it all along. And I can’t help but think once again that some things you want given.

“No, I wouldn’t,” I reply softly, knowing I could never demand that Devin do something he didn’t want to, or be someone he wasn’t.

“And why is that, Moira?” he questions, the anger fading.

“You
know
why.”

“I doubt that I could fully understand your reasons,” he states. “And I wouldn’t want to assume that I do, so I’d rather you enlighten me.”

“Because having been in that situation I wouldn’t want to subject anyone to it,” I elaborate, irritated that he has forced me to say it out loud.

“Is that the only reason?” I don’t know why I bother trying to hide things from him when nothing escapes him. He knows that there is more to my answer and he’s demanding that I reveal it all.

“No,” I respond, annoyed. “And because you can get that and much more from someone without having to pay them.”

He stares at me for a moment, his gaze flickering between my hazel eye and blue one. “My thoughts exactly,” he murmurs softly.

We leave the café and head back to the police station. I feel like something has shifted between me and the detective, yet it’s something I don’t understand. I wish I could visit Devin and let him know that I finally realize what he had been trying to tell me all along. He’s probably found another, and the idea fills me with sadness. The Chief pulls Keenan aside for a moment and I slump into an empty chair, feeling despondent. Then Constable Bradford walks by, and I notice a long scratch on his neck. He seems angry today instead of his usual arrogant self.

“What happened to you, constable?” I question mockingly. “Who did you fight with?”

He glances at me coldly. “My ma’s damn cat.”

I laugh, surprising him. For some reason I can’t envision him having a mother, and I pity the woman who had to raise this self-satisfied ass. “What did you do, try to pet it?”

“Something like that,” he mutters, his lips curving in a devious smile.

I have no doubt that Constable Bradford enjoys punishing women, subjecting them to intense pain for his gratification just like the Memory House Instigator. Thankfully, Keenan returns and gestures for me to step into his office. Constable Bradford winks at me before I turn away and I can feel his eyes on my ass as I walk away.