No One Left to Tell (9 page)

"We've got a check going for his permit to carry. Once we get that, we'll start the search for his missing weapon," Tony replied. "Anything on the wound? Time of death?" He glanced at the ME.

"From the angle of the cut, left to right, you'll be looking for a right-handed person. Not much help there. The slice was clean, no serrated edge to the blade. An incised wound transecting the left and right common carotid artery as well as both jugular veins, causing a fatal hemorrhage." The ME pointed a gloved hand to Blair's throat. "And as for time of death, the chill in the church distorted the time line, but my estimate would put TOD at approximately two hours prior to when the body was discovered and called in to nine-one-one. The absence of rigor at the church gave us that. I'll let you know if I change my estimate after the autopsy."

"I'll let you know what we find," Scott replied. "Oh, and as for the trace evidence on his clothes and hands, I'll get the analysis bumped up. Put a rush on it."

"You giving us special treatment?" Tony teased, his dark eyes crimped with humor, putting Raven more at ease.

"Not for you, you ugly SOB. This one's for Mackenzie. I mean, it's not like I've never heard the word 'rush' before."

Tony grinned. "Well, thanks for the enlightenment. Call me when you have a report. I'll pick it up." Her partner stepped away from the gurney, tugging at his surgical gown.

Raven followed, yanking at her latex gloves. Catching a look from her partner, she asked, "What? Spit it out."

"I think I'm getting an allergy toward coincidences, Raven. And right now, I got hives in every nook and cranny of my body."

"That's an image I didn't need," she replied. "You talking about the paintball thing?" After he nodded, she heaved a sigh. "Yeah, I know. All my training tells me I should like him for this, but my gut says this is all wrong."

"Are you sure it's your gut?" He stopped and turned toward her. "Maybe your libido is doing all the talking." When she glared at him and opened her mouth to speak, he interrupted her. "Look, Mac, you're a good cop. I trust you with my life, but the coincidences are adding up. We gotta look hard at this guy. Can you do that?"

Without hesitation, she answered, "Yes, I can. I've built my life on the law, Tony. It was a gift from my father, the only thing that grounded me after his death. Central Station is my family, for crying out loud." Fixing her gaze on him, she added, "But I gotta trust my instincts on this and speak my mind to my partner. Can you accept that?"

He searched her eyes for a long moment, then his expression softened. "Yeah, I can do that. I just had to check. Come on. The chief is waiting. And we gotta make nice for the media. Glad I wore my best clip-on tie."

"You mean you've got more than one?" Raven followed Tony, but her mind dwelled on her reaction to Christian as a man. How could she explain something she didn't understand herself? And her partner had been right on another count. She had to keep her mind focused on the objective. If Delacorte was the killer, she wouldn't have the luxury to ponder her feelings. Tony might press for his arrest, and she'd have no choice but to do her job.

As Christian entered the Dunhill mansion through the kitchen, he found it spotless, without the normal activity. Fiona dined at this hour and usually invited him to join her. But they hadn't made such arrangements today with his late drive into town. The lights were dimmed. Peering around the stainless pots and pans hanging over the large butcher-block table, he spied the gas stove glistening in the pale light, cold as the room in which he stood.

A white envelope lay atop the butcher-block table, his name penned with Fiona's elegant script. Without opening the note, he knew what would be inside—the emptiness of the manor closed in on him, telling him all he needed to know.

He picked up the stationery and walked toward the night light, placing the page on the counter. As he suspected, Fiona had left for Paris, a sudden meeting with associates. He knew from experience that whenever she used the word "associates," she meant the side of the business she'd always kept hidden—to protect him. When he was younger, he'd hated the fact that she guarded her secrets. Now he understood her intentions, and loved her all the more for it.

Absentmindedly, he wandered through the darkened house toward her master suite upstairs. He flipped the light switch. Treading by her elaborately carved four-poster bed into the vast dressing area encircled by mirrors, he noticed her luggage gone. His heart sank.

She'd taken all of it. Fiona planned to be gone a long time.

"Damn it, Fie!" he cursed under his breath.

His voice sounded foreign even to his own ear. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved his cell phone and pressed the direct dial he knew well. Maybe if he told her what he'd found out, she'd come home to help him make sense of it. But as Fiona's phone rang, a faint noise echoed in the master bedroom. His shoulder slumped. The sound came from atop her dresser.

Fiona had left her cell phone, severing another link between them. Set near the phone, another note had been placed on her bureau, meant for his eyes alone.

"What are you hiding?" he whispered.

She was protecting him from her own past. His heart wouldn't allow him to believe anything else. She probably didn't know the police were directing their investigation his way. For now, he'd keep that tidbit from her. She had enough on her mind if she was desperate enough to flee the country without him. Christian ripped the note in half, slipping it into his pocket to be burned downstairs. Fiona's note wouldn't become evidence against her.

Hitting another speed dial, he rang the hangar for the Dunhill jet. On the third ring, a man answered. "Dunhill hangar. Cooper here," the voice burdened with the boredom of night shift.

"Hey Coop. This is Christian. Just checking to see if Fiona got off okay."

"Yeah, before my shift." The man's voice was touched with concern. "Anything wrong?"

"No, everything's okay. Just checking on her flight plan." His effort at nonchalance made the call sound strained.

"Let me get it for you. Hold on a sec." The silence dragged on, an eternity. If he knew where she was, he might be able to—

"Well, this is strange." Papers rustled in the background. Christian resisted the urge to ask what the man meant by strange. He already knew.

Cooper finally spoke. "The only flight plan is to Lanchester, a small private airstrip outside London. Looks like they touched down to refuel, then took off again, about an hour ago. No plan listed after that. Do you want me to make contact with the jet?"

"No. I'm sure everything is fine. Thanks for your help."

Christian switched off the phone before the man replied. If Fiona had gone to so much trouble to disappear, he'd honor her wishes. But he ached with the emptiness of her departure. She was his anchor, his only semblance of family.

Christian looked up. His eyes fixed upon the mirror. A stranger stared back. He'd grown used to the stark look of grief. Robbed of his innocence all those years ago, he'd never shaken the sense of loss. The tragedy cleaved to him like a malignancy, never letting him forget.

Yet the greatest cruelty was the things he'd never remember. He still kept his old baseball glove, but came up empty when he tried to recall his father giving it to him. An old photograph of a birthday party felt like the remembrance of a stranger. Joy lay buried in his brain, a casualty of violence. The intrusion of death into his young life had left him maimed beyond hope, leaving him to wonder why he'd been the one spared.

Then Fiona had rescued him from the institutionalized care of the state. She made sure he received the best treatment for post-traumatic stress, even taking him into her home. Never judging him, she was the only one who understood his rage—and his fear.

But now, he had never felt so alone. It reminded him of the first time he'd stared into a mirror, looking through a child's eyes yet no longer a child. Fiona had aligned herself beside him back then. Too numb to understand her reason for caring, he had resisted her tenacity at first, fighting her every move. Eventually, he drew from her strength, and accepted her nurturing.

But his demons had come for him at last, peering out of the shadows of his past. Now, they brazenly hovered like vultures, eager to strip him of what remained. The image made him weary. He'd grown so tired of hurting.

"Shake it off, Delacorte," he chastised. "Put an end to it."

Fiona needed him for a change. He owed her far more than he could repay. She'd gotten him to this point. The rest was up to him. His desire for revenge had become a weapon, an obsession to overcome his fear of the dark. It gave him purpose, a reason to crawl out of bed each and every day. His weakness flourished into strength, and darkness had become his ally—a link forged despite the countless nightmares he'd endured over the years.

Prepared to fight, he tensed his jaw. A stern resolve fired his eyes. He wouldn't let Fiona down.

The old clapboard house on Elm Street looked more like condemned property than the residence of Logan McBride and his men. Logan had always despised the accommodations. They were beneath him. The locale allowed him anonymity, decreeing the respect he earned. But fear had been the real driver. Anyone in the surrounding neighborhoods who knew of his reputation gave him a wide berth.

On the outskirts of the warehouse district, in a section of Chicago even the police feared to tread, the dilapidated, two-story structure was the property of Vinnie Buck, his number two man. Vinnie had earned his status after allowing Logan to leech off his good fortune, such as it was. And McBride's mercenaries soon followed, slowly rebuilding his followers after his stint in prison.

His quarters were extravagant compared to the others. Wall-to-wall cots dotted the interior of the house while he enjoyed the privacy of his well-appointed single room.
It was good to be king!

Lying on his unmade bed with only a sheet over his bare body, Logan read the newspaper, his shoulders propped up against the old wooden headboard. A naked whore lay sprawled beside him, her dark hair splayed over his bed linens. For the entire afternoon, she'd taken his abusive and forceful behavior, whimpering in a tantalizing fashion when he got too rough. At one point, the pathetic wailing reminded him of a rabbit he'd set on fire when he was eight. This, of course, only spurred him on.

Now after reading about the dead body found at St. Sebastian's, a part of his anatomy grew rigid again as he relived the moment he'd robbed Mickey Blair of his future. Yanking the covers off the woman, he clutched her bare ass with his hand, squeezing it hard enough to earn him a yelp.

"Don't hurt me. I'm awake. What do you—" Before she finished, he'd grabbed a fistful of hair, forcing her head between his legs.

"I don't pay you to talk. Get to work," he demanded, closing his eyes and burrowing into the pillows at his back. The newspaper fell to the floor. Through his eyelashes, he watched her and grinned. The bob of her head and the feel of her warm, wet mouth really charged his blood, but her humiliation and willingness to take his abuse had been an even greater turn-on. A soft knock on his bedroom door disturbed his reverie.

"Go away!" he ordered impatiently.

The hooker's eyes sought his, looking for approval. Most probably, she prayed for his dismissal at the intrusion. With a cruel sneer, he gave her neither. Hope left her eyes. She continued with even greater determination to please him. He held back his contempt at her pathetic display to curry favor.

"It's Vinnie. I can come back." The muffled sound of the man's voice filtered through the closed door.

His smile broadened as he bellowed, "Come in, Vin." Then, under his breath, he added, "This should be interesting."

Barely opening his eyes, he glanced at the man's reaction as he waved him closer. Wide-eyed, Vinnie stared at the woman, in obvious admiration of her enthusiasm. Unable to ignore her, he licked his lips greedily, then eventually stammered, "You cut that pretty close last night. That little priest nearly got sent to his maker, paying a premature call to Peter at them pearly gates."

Vinnie's version of small talk amused him. And he appreciated the man's attempt at being cryptic in front of the whore. No need for that. If she talked about anything within these four walls, she'd be fish food by nightfall.

"I knew you could handle it. Nothing like the rush"—he gasped as he came, groaning his approval— "of almost getting caught." With a heavy sigh, Logan closed his eyes again. He shuddered at the woman's steadfast ministrations, then asked, "How did Krueger do? He have a sense of humor?"

His eyes on the hooker, Vin elaborated on their latest recruit, Danny Krueger. "He was cool. Took two of us, like you figured. Would've given anything to see the look on that priest's face. Bet he had to change his drawers."

A low chuckle rolled through Logan's chest. His hand brushed back the hair of the woman gazing up at him. An enticing mix of fear and adoration reflected in her eyes. As he glanced up at Vinnie, he noticed the man leered at the hooker once again. But his number two man kept up his end of the conversation, despite the lust filling his eyes.

"Yeah, Krueger's gonna work out. The bastard got a rush out of the hunt, wants to know when we can do that again. He's got a thing for killing animals. Guy's even more twisted about it than you."