No One Left to Tell (12 page)

"I'll remember that." With an unchanging expression, he spoke quietly. "Maybe one day I can show you the same hospitality."

His words were like a double-edged sword. And his eyes didn't give any particular insight into his meaning. Delacorte clearly preferred ambiguity. So as he walked toward the elevators, she kept her eyes on him. Christian never looked back.

The way he moved intrigued her—fluid and commanding as a predator. Perhaps just as deadly. Yet with his guard down, when he allowed it to show, his eyes held the promise of kindness and good humor. He was certainly a puzzle. Hearing the elevator arrive, she slowly closed the door and let her mind wander.

Stepping into the room, she placed her hands on her hips and stared across the expanse. Finally, she settled on the study door.
What had he been doing?
Thinking back to when he walked into the foyer, she replayed the moment in her head.

"Well, I'll be damned!" Rushing into the study, she stepped behind the desk, her eyes searching for anything out of place. Nothing looked missing. "You had your gloves and jacket on, Delacorte. I thought you'd just gotten here, but what if you were just leaving. Damn it!" she fumed.

If he'd taken anything or been on Blair's computer, she might never know. But then again, she might have caught him in the act like she figured, before he'd done any real damage. Setting her jaw, she fought back her indignation.
Had she been played for a fool?
All the while she'd been posturing her authority, the guy might already have had a lead to follow.

Raven remembered the balcony looked onto the parking lot. If she hurried, she might catch him drive away. Yanking open the French doors, she stepped toward the balustrade, sticking to the shadows next to a wall. Snow swirled, casting a Norman Rockwell quality to a scene far from an image of Americana. As she expected, Christian stood by a black Navigator, the car door ajar casting a light on him. He stopped.

Turning slowly, he looked back toward the building, his eyes looking to the upper floors. Without thinking, she reflexively waved a hand. Raven shook her head, mentally chastising herself for the ridiculous display. Not possible he saw her from this distance and under these conditions—in the dark.

"You're acting like a schoolgirl, Mac. The man can't see squat," she mumbled.

Just as she spoke, Christian raised a hand and returned her wave. A simple gesture. It clutched her heart, caressing her like the tentative fingers of a first-time lover. For an instant, her breath caught in the back of her throat.

"How the hell do you do that, Christian?" she whispered.

Her words drifted into the frosty night, a moist vapor trail. Feathery snowflakes wafted to her cheeks and eyelashes, drawn to her warmth. After a long moment, well after he'd pulled from the parking lot, a faint smile curved her lips.

"And what were you up to?"

The serrated blade bloodied his plate as he carved into the meat. Slathering the fleshy wedge with steak sauce, he lifted the fork to his mouth. Logan dined alone.

His men would eat after him, feasting on a revolting concoction of spaghetti, when the dining room had been cleared of his setting. Anything better would be wasted on their crude tastes. He set the rules, including the one about not being interrupted while he dined.

Apparently, this rule was subject to interpretation by Vinnie Buck. The man stood at the entryway to the dining room staring expectantly at him, waiting for a gesture for him to enter. Glaring at his number two man, he continued with his meal, disregarding the rude intrusion.

Quietly, Logan chewed every morsel, ignoring the bastard. Only the sound of utensils scraping the plate filled the small room, punctuated by Logan's contentment at his full stomach. He sighed and wiped the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. Still, Vinnie waited.

"This better be important, Vin." His tone was soft and even, yet clearly filled with contempt. "You've disturbed my meal."

"I'm sorry, Logan," he muttered, stepping into the room with his head lowered. "It's just that I thought you'd want to know."

Silence. The idiot expected his prompting.

"Know what, Vinnie?" His voice seethed. Fear showed in Vin's eyes, making them bug out of his head like a macabre carnival doll.

"I accompanied a team to follow both cops, like you ordered." The man squirmed, making Logan suspect he'd fucked something up. Such a simple assignment. Leave it to this asshole to mess it up.

The man's lower lip trembled as he continued, "The team I was on got the job done. We followed the Mexican cop home after the press conference. We know where he lives. But team two waited for Detective Mackenzie outside the police station for over an hour. They must've missed her."

"It was your assignment, Vinnie. There is no such thing as 'they missed her.' The failure is clearly yours." Logan stood and tossed the napkin to the table, keeping his eyes on Buck. Without looking down, his left hand found the serrated steak knife. By the look in Vin's eyes, he saw the move, too. "Say it. You lost her, right, Vinnie?"

He inched closer and clutched the knife. Before the man stammered his excuses, Logan quickly closed the gap between them. He launched a powerful backhand across the face of the repulsive sycophant. He dropped the man to the floor and knelt on his chest, stifling his breath. Shifting his weight, he dug his knee into fleshy ribs and yanked at the man's hair. Vin yelped.

"You know how I feel about failure, Vinnie. It's simply not an option."

The blade became an extension of his threat. He slid the blade tip through the skin of Buck's cheek, leaving a white line. Blanched skin soon filled with blood.

"Now, how are we going to rectify the situation?"

"Please, Logan. It won't happen again," he blubbered, his face turning purple. "I'll find her. I swear!" He gulped air. A tear rolled down his cheek.

"You failed me. And even after I gave you that hooker." Logan stood and turned his back, leaving Vin to pick himself off the floor. "I could've made you wait in line like the rest of my men. Rank has its privileges, Vin. It must. But only if you deserve it. You've taken advantage of my generosity."

On his knees, Buck wallowed in guilt as he lowered his head, avoiding his glare. His subservience pleased Logan immensely.

"I won't fail again," he mumbled, thin strands of blood racing down his cheek. "By tomorrow, you'll know where to find Raven Mackenzie."

Walking back toward his man, Logan towered over the kneeling Vinnie. Laying his hand on Vinnie's head, he glanced down, enjoying the feeling of superiority. "Tomorrow, then. Redeem yourself in my eyes and make me proud."

Vin dared to look up, his eyes paying tribute. "Yes, sir."

A flash of yellow teeth told Logan that all had been forgotten. His lieutenant would not falter.

After Vinnie left the dining room, Logan returned to his bedroom with a bottle of whiskey and the wife of his latest recruit, Krueger, in tow. The newcomer had made the gesture of offering his woman, hoping to secure favor. And without a doubt, the man had failed to inform
her
of his generous overture. She now stood in the far corner of his bedroom, trembling in the most delectable fashion. Krueger earned brownie points with every snivel.

Although the woman's hair and eyes were dark, that's where the similarities with Raven Mackenzie ended. The pathetic little mouse would never be the caliber of female he deserved. Krueger's woman would soon learn how he handled disappointment.

"Don't complain to me, woman. I'm not the one passing you around like a party favor." He sighed. "You should be grateful. I rarely lower my standards to this degree."

Perhaps he'd consider the woman an appetizer to the main course. His mouth watered for the stimulation of Raven Mackenzie. Taking a long pull from the bottle, he downed a slug of liquor, imagining the good detective on her knees before him.

Picturing it brought back his consuming rage for vengeance, despite the fact that the detective wasn't technically responsible. In his mind, there was a certain harmony to the idea that she would pay for the sin against him. A whimper drew him back.

"Come here, darlin'," he cajoled, not knowing her name. "Show Daddy how much you appreciate him giving you and your man a home."

She inched closer, her face pallid and frail. Strands of hair draped over her eyes as her chin lowered. When she'd gone as far as she dared, he closed the distance, insinuating himself next to her.

"Drink," he ordered, handing her the bottle. Purposefully, he kept his expression unreadable, although her eyes searched for indications of his humanity. Finding nothing, she tipped the bottle to her lips out of sub-missiveness, wincing as the liquor burned her throat. He chuckled as she gagged and offered him the bottle in return—when he wanted so much more.

He raised her chin, waiting for her to look up. A shy smile slowly gained momentum on her face. Alcohol raised her hopes. Logan brushed back her hair and stroked a cheek. When he saw the faint essence of adoration brimming in her eyes, he leaned closer.

"To your knees, woman. After tonight, you'll know exactly how to please me." She gasped, choking on her fear. He kissed her cheek, then whispered in her ear. "And I expect you to be an energetic pupil."

Large tufts of wet snow drifted aimlessly, measured only by the cadence of a clock that gave rhythm to it. Christian sat mesmerized by the constant descent, his low spirits magnified by the abundance of white in Mother Nature's assault. The steady barrage accumulated quickly and now started to stick to the windows of his cottage, encasing his world in a silent tomb.

The sight provoked his imagination. Cemeteries and crypts were silent, but death screamed its passage, forever seared on the intellect even beyond rational explanation. He'd learned that firsthand. Like a man diseased, he fought back the symptoms of his affliction, struggling to bury the grief so he might function.

In the library, a flickering glow from the fireplace bathed the room as he sat at his desk. His mind was only faintly aware of the sedate crackle of the flame, fighting its losing battle against the chill. He favored the dimly lit study with its deep cherrywood paneling and heady smell of books, its furnishings of black leather. It fit his sullen mood, a stark contrast to the cozy wintry scene beyond the draped windows.

Ice cubes shifted, falling against the glass as he drained the last of the liquor. A subtle burn of vintage Macallan scotch branded the back of his throat. The heat warmed his chest, but sapped his strength. It'd been one agonizing day. The weight of it played on his mind.

Absentmindedly, he held up his glass, staring through cubes of ice and cut crystal. The blaze refracted through rainbow prisms, distorting his gaze into the hearth.

Beep.
His computer summoned his attention as it booted. The bright screens launched a kaleidoscope of color onto his face and sweater, barely capturing his fading concentration.

His world had been rocked today. Despite that, Raven Mackenzie had insinuated herself into his brain from the moment she'd held him at gunpoint. With all the turmoil plaguing him, he didn't need the added complication. Women always wanted more than he had to give.

Eventually, even no-strings lovers deluded themselves into thinking he should feel something in return. They'd all been wrong. He recognized it long ago. Being emotionally crippled, he accepted his lot in life. But a woman like Raven would never understand. She'd want more, and would deserve it. Yet beyond every other impossible rationalization, Raven Mackenzie was a cop. He couldn't allow himself to forget that.

"Get a grip, Delacorte," he scolded. "Keep focused."

His fingers moved across the keyboard, pulling up the county tax assessor's database off the Internet. Retrieving the only lead he'd taken from Blair's place, he pulled out the ragged-edged paper from his jeans pocket.

Before Detective Mackenzie discovered him in the study, Christian had spotted a spiral notepad by the faint glow of a small flashlight. Flipping the notebook cover, he'd run his fingers over the top page, noticing faint indentations. With a pencil from the desk, he'd gently rubbed the lead across the lined page. A numbered street address gradually leapt from the page, lifted in reverse like a photographic negative. Not having a crack at Mickey's computer, he had to be satisfied with the only clue to follow.

Maybe it meant nothing.

"3533
South Giles Avenue," he whispered, as he entered the address into the query page of the property database. His only familiarity with the area was that the Dan Ryan Expressway ran through it, in the general vicinity of Chinatown. Without delay, he'd gotten a hit on his query.

A second screen detailed the property description, map location, and ownership data. The name on the deed left him staring at the screen in disbelief.

"What the hell?" he muttered aloud. "Why would you have an interest in this place, Mick?"

Fiona's words played back in his memory—
I didn't have him killed, at least not in the way you might imagine.
From her note, he thought she had fled the country from the police, but maybe she had run from him? Had she been afraid of what he might find?

Slumping deeper into his chair, he rocked with his eyes closed. His mind played tug-of-war with his emotions. He loved Fiona like a mother, but if she had ordered Blair killed, would he cover up her crime? Could he walk away from the truth?

Too tired to dwell on Fiona's sins, he pushed his doubts aside. He'd have to obtain more information on the property before taking the next step. A visit was in order, but he needed more intel before he barged into a facility unannounced. More from instinct, his eyes fell to the weapon lying on his desk, lodged in its holster. He'd be armed in case he ran into trouble.

Hitting the print icon, he downloaded and printed the map. Glancing at a wall clock, his eyes blurred in fatigue. Already after midnight. Given his drive into the city at dawn, another long day loomed ahead. The police would be at Dunhill Tower by eight. But after they left, he would visit the Giles Avenue location. With any luck, he'd be ahead of Raven Mackenzie and her partner in his own investigation. It might be all the advantage he'd need to protect Fiona's secret.