Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan (13 page)

“He’s waving it at me,” Riese muttered.

Boxman grunted out a breath. “And so another day winds down in freaking small-town America. Starts with a murder, ends with green beer and only a few questions answered between the two. Prime example…” He made a less-than-polite gesture in the newcomer’s direction.

“Bad divorce,” Jasmine told Cyrus, whose expression had gone from guarded to completely locked down. “Your grandfather’s still waving his mug—” she slid her eyes to Rogan “—Riese.”

“Our cue to leave.” Shoving back his chair, Rogan took her hand firmly in his. “I told the paramedics to send their report on the college kids to the county sheriff,” he said to Boxman. “Make sure they follow through.”

“They will.” A dispirited Riese regarded her grandfather, who was happily upending someone else’s drink. “They’re my cousins once removed.”

Of course they were, Jasmine thought.

Out on the pier, she let Rogan propel her into his truck. She was pressing keys on her iPhone when he climbed in next to her. “Please work, please work,” she coaxed the small device. “You know, Lieutenant, I wouldn’t have minded meeting Rooney Blume. Riese says he’s very colorful. And knowledgeable.”

“And lucid for a man of ninety-seven who can knock back more whiskey in one night than most of us could in a month.”

Already stirred, her amusement blossomed. “Now, how would you know that? And if you say it was a lucky guess, Cyrus won’t be the only person in town with a bruised throat.”

He swung his truck out of the rut-filled parking lot. “You make it to ninety-seven in anyone’s universe, Jasmine, you’re verging on legendary status. The man’s part of Raven’s Cove lore. More important right now is what you know about Victor and his brother.”

Glancing up from her phone, Jasmine tried not to be alarmed that she couldn’t actually see the road in front of them through fog so dense it resembled sheared wool. “I don’t know much of anything about Cyrus, except that his grandmother celebrated her ninetieth birthday recently, putting her, minus the whiskey buzz, right on Rooney Blume’s heels.”

“Victor didn’t talk about him?”

“Not really. He said his father passed away when he was in his teens and his mother about three years ago. He also mentioned an older brother who died young, but just as we got onto the subject of brothers and, more specifically, twins, Boxman burst in and started ragging on Dukes for not having dinner ready.”

“And the subject of twins never came up again?”

“We didn’t do a lot of early-life histories at the safe house, Rogan. Before you got there wasn’t a whole lot different than after. We talked about Wainwright, and there were the inevitable cop horror stories, but early lives, not so much.”

“You must have been bored as hell.”

She offered him a “duh” stare, then grinned and shook her phone. “You can tell your computer brain to stop processing the possibilities. That wasn’t Victor at Two Toe Joe’s pretending to be Cyrus so he can trick a killer. And in case your mind’s on a totally twisted tear, the two are not one.”

A dark brow rose. “Sure of that, are you?”

“Positive.”

“Are you equally positive that ex-cop Cyrus is a good guy?”

“He’s good enough not to want his brother’s life endangered more than it already is by the undercover work he’s doing.”

Rogan’s lips twitched. “Not quite what I meant, love.”

She made an aggravated sound. “I am not hearing this. You are not going to suggest that Cyrus is working for someone connected to Malcolm Wainwright.”

“Ex-cop. Bad attitude. Possible chip.”

“Oh, well, when you put it that way, the man should be sent up tonight and the key tossed.” Spying a fork in the road, she used her chattering phone to wave him away from Blume House. “I want food that doesn’t involve black vegetables or me making any of the courses. There must be a diner or café somewhere around this town that’s open after 10:00 p.m.”

Rogan brought up the playlist from his iPod, gestured at the display. “You can choose the music. There’s the Crystal Birdcage.”

She didn’t trust the gleam in his eye. “Why do I get to choose?”

“Because there’s the Crystal Birdcage and, according to Riese, not another thing open at this time of night.”

“Hmm. Are we talking crystals in the shape of ravens, and servers who read palms, tarot cards and/or tea leaves?”

The gleam deepened. “Along those lines. I’d say it’s right up your Witch House alley, except that sometime around ten-thirty, the psychic servers transform into feathery bird dancers who transform back into humans by shedding their feathers to music, catcalls and cold hard cash.”

It was nice to know she could still see the absurd humor in something as quirky as dinner theater performed by molting strippers.

Scrolling to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” she pressed Play, then slid a finger along Rogan’s arm. “I’m game if you are.” Unfastening her seat belt, she eased across the console until her lips were less than an inch from his ear. “Just so you know, though…” She kissed his neck. “Only three-quarters of the servers-slash-dancers at the Birdcage are female.” She nipped his earlobe, then soothed the sting with another kiss. “And once they get down to their final feathers, you discover that half of those females—” one final, teasing kiss “—actually aren’t.”

* * *

R
OGAN HAD SEEN AND DONE
too many things in his life to be more than mildly entertained by the feather dancers at the offbeat dinner club. What did surprise him was that, one, Riese’s aunt had been front and center, stuffing twenties into the G-string of a beer-bellied man named Rocco, and, two, he was fine with the mostly naked men until a buff Adonis with long blond hair and a covetous gleam in his eyes sashayed up to their table and planted himself in front of Jasmine for three never-ending songs.

If he’d possessed a single homicidal tendency, Rogan would have pulled his gun and blown the ripped bastard across the room. On the flip side, if he had any sense, he’d have long since found an excuse to get Jasmine into another safe house then headed back to Florida and the tricity murder investigation he’d left hanging there.

If he had any sense…

He swore at himself as he left Blume House by way of a seldom-used side door that couldn’t be seen from Jasmine’s room. The room, she’d informed him with sly deliberation, where she was going to run a steamy lavender bubble bath, do a striptease of her own and…

She’d left the rest to his highly charged and pretty much ready-to-crawl imagination. Because he knew exactly how she would look naked and stepping into a claw-foot tub that was big enough for two. He knew how her mouth would taste—like red wine and sex—how her skin would feel—sleek and hot under his greedy hands. He even knew how she’d sound when he took her up and over the edge.

When she drove him out of his damn head.

Thank Christ for drizzly October fog that slid its thin fingers down his neck and up under his jacket to make him uncomfortable. Thank, as well, a memory with sharp, clingy claws, and a mind trained to rise above the most exquisite forms of torture.

Working through the sensations, Rogan slammed a necessary mental door, made a quick scan of the area and jogged the short distance to his woodland destination.

“It’s after 1:00 in the damn a.m., Rogan,” the man he’d arranged to meet grumbled. But he reached into his camper van for a pot of coffee and poured two strong mugs. “I assume you’re late for a reason, one I’m guessing that’s less about Cutless’s death, and more about you kicking yourself for not thinking as clearly as you usually do. In a word, female. In a name, Jasmine.”

“Helpful.” Rogan took a sip of coffee, burned his tongue and decided that topped this truly crappy day just about perfectly. “She got a text message tonight. She thinks it came from her ex. I tend to agree.”

“So Daniel’s alive. That’s good. What about Cutless’s death? A purposeful part of the spree or not?”

“I’d say not. Far as I can tell, there’s no connection between Cutless and Wainwright, or between Cutless and any of the other victims. Deputy didn’t do it.”

“You sound pretty definite.”

“Killer’s left-handed, deputy isn’t. Cutless’s throat was sliced from the murderer’s right to his left, and we know the slicing could only have been done from behind because—cop.”

His companion pulled a battered flask from his jacket, held it up. At Rogan’s nod, he sloshed a generous amount of whiskey into both mugs. “All things are relative, my friend. All things relate in some way. Murders in our case. People and places. Or maybe just one place. Talk to me about the other guests at Blume House.”

Rogan swirled the contents together. “Pair of German college kids, both out of the picture for now, a landscape artist from Concord and a couple of newly retired adventurers who want a break from the RV in which they’ve been living and traveling for five-plus months. There’s a reporter—not Daniel—in one of the self-contained units and a man named Carl Blake in the other.”

“And you’re telling me this particular guest’s name because…?”

Rogan swallowed a mouthful of the hellfire brew. “Cyrus Bowcott used the name Carl Blake when he checked in the day before Jasmine and I arrived.”

“Fake name’s not uncommon in our line of work.”

“Yeah, except he’s no longer in our line of work.”

“Once a cop.”

“Cyrus made a grab—unintentional, he claims—for Jasmine earlier tonight.”

“His reason?”

“He says he intercepted an email meant for his twin. Victor’s embroiled, Cyrus came in his place.”

“And you think that’s a wheelbarrow load of bull.”

Did he? Rogan let his gaze roam the heavily misted clearing. “I checked on the status of Victor’s investigation. Cyrus isn’t lying. His brother’s off the radar and currently on the payroll of a Baja coke king. Reports in when he can, and his captain doesn’t want him burdened with extraneous issues. I explained in my usual patient way that even the most dedicated cop might not consider the idea of being a target for murder extraneous, but the captain was adamant.”

“In other words, piss off, outsider cop.”

“You got the ‘off’ right anyway. Jasmine believes Cyrus’s story. To a point. She swears he’s not really Victor being clever, and there’s no twofer like Hezekiah and the wandering evil involved.”

The older man swallowed deeply, flexed a stiff wrist. “There isn’t a whole lot I can say to that as I didn’t know Cyrus was here until just this minute. I can tell you, because you’re obviously weighing the possibility, that Cyrus and Victor are twins and both were cops until Cyrus, for reasons unknown, decided to pack it in one day about five years ago. Dropped his career, then dropped out of sight for the longest time. In fact—and don’t take this to mean I think he’s involved in anything untoward—first I heard of him resurfacing was a few months after Daniel Corey screwed up the Wainwright investigation.”

“Timing’s convenient.” Rogan looked into his mug. “I’d also say it’s conspicuous enough to warrant dismissal.”

“By anyone but you.” At a sideways glance from Rogan, his companion made a gruff sound. “Okay, hell, anyone but me, too. I’ll dig,” he agreed.

“And bitch and complain while you’re doing it.” Rogan took a final drink. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep having all the fun.”

“Uh-huh. While we’re on the subject of fun, didn’t the first phone call Jasmine received promise that she’d suffer before she died?”

To quell a sudden spurt of fury, Rogan picked up and examined a broken black feather. “There’s more than one kind of suffering in this world. Killer could be playing psychological games, going with the ‘anytime, anyplace, you never know when or where I’ll show up’ angle. He’s given her one feather so far. He’ll ramp up the fear substantially if the number reaches two.”

“Seems more like when than if to me, but the magic number’s three in any case.”

Pulling out his gun, Rogan let it dangle out of sight between his knees. “You still working on connections?”

“That’s my job, isn’t it? Uh…” His companion used his mug to gesture at the weapon. “Did I miss or maybe say something that justifies you thinking I’m in league with the enemy?”

“Oh, nothing as byzantine as that, I’m sure.” Strolling out of the dark mist, Jasmine folded her arms and rested a shoulder on the trunk of a naked poplar. “He heard a sound and knew, because he sandpapers his senses in his sleep, that I’d followed him. … Therefore, it was me making the subtle racket that most people would think only a dog could hear. However, on the off chance he was wrong, and it was a murderer looking for his ninth and tenth victims…”

She nodded at the nearly invisible gun. Then pushing off, she beamed at the older man. “Good to see you again, Lieutenant Costello.”

Chapter Eleven

“I’ve got wine, white and red, aged brandy if you want your insides warmed, tequila for a kick or the whiskey paint thinner Rogan and I used to kill the taste of my coffee.”

Costello proudly displayed a collection of bottles in the rear of his camper van. Rogan looked them over before frowning into his mug.

“Real men only drink paint thinner,” Jasmine whispered and felt more than saw his eyes travel to her face.

“Got Pepsi and OJ,” Costello went on. “Milk, too, but it’s old and smelling a little questionable. As for food…”

“OJ’s good, Lieutenant, and food’s not necessary. We dined like royalty at the Crystal Birdcage tonight.” Her eyes twinkled as Rogan’s narrowed. “A certain blond male dancer and his mother own the place. They’re Blumes.”

Chuckling, Costello handed her a plastic bottle. “That can be said for most everyone in this town. Damned if I know why your ex-husband chose it for his new life.”

“He chose…?” Surprise sent her brows up. “Did I know that? Did you?” she asked Rogan.

“I sort of had to, love. Secondary contact,” he reminded at her protracted stare. “Ballard gave Daniel three options for state. Daniel went with Maine and requested Raven’s Cove. There was no objection, so the Witness Protection Agency approved his selection.”

“Why?”

Rogan stuffed his gun away. “I imagine the obscurity of the town and its remote location worked for them.”