The Promised One (The Turning Stone Chronicles) (2 page)

Chapter 2

Through the office window, Rhys watched Alexi head toward the parking lot, her back ramrod stiff and her steps straight and purposeful. How she managed to hold it together like that amazed him.

“Should have gone with her,” he muttered. He knew the heart-wrenching agony of loss. Sooner or later, she’d need a shoulder to cry on . . . his shoulder.

Captain Williams appeared beside him. “Now that Jordan’s gone, I’ve got a job for you.” He handed Rhys a file. “Review this and go down to the crime scene. See if you can discover anything else about Jordan’s murder.”

Rhys flipped through the file. “Alexi will be pissed if she finds out I went down there without her.”

“So don’t tell her.”

“Easier said than done. Sometimes she reads me like a book.”

“Then close the cover, Temple. I don’t want her messing in this case.”

“How do you plan to keep her out?”

“Forced bereavement leave.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “She’s not going to like that.”

A satisfied smirk crawled across the captain’s face. “That’s why you get to tell her.”

Crime scene tape barricaded the alley, only a few feet wider than a garbage truck. Rhys flashed his badge at the uniform guarding the edge and ducked under the tape. The rotten smell from the rusted dumpster told him it had been a while since the last trash pickup.

A slant of sunshine, coming in across a low rooftop, framed a rectangular section of airbrushed art marred with gang graffiti. The crunch of glass underfoot as he walked by a steel door made Rhys stop. Broken light bulbs jutted out of the light fixtures over the three steel doors at the back of the alley buildings. No light and no escape route. A perfect place for a crime. He gave the ramshackle area the once-over.
What had Baron been doing here?

A couple of forensic cops bagged potential evidence near the back of the alley. About halfway down, a woman with long black hair stood talking to another police officer. Rhys did a double take.
How had Alexi found the crime scene? Williams was going to be pissed.
He hadn’t even started his investigation and he’d already failed the assignment he’d been given. He strode forward ready to haul her home.

“What are you doing here?” Rhys called.

She spun around, her hair flipping over her shoulder with the quick movement. Two almond-shaped eyes stared at him, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I thought you were someone else.”

The woman gave him a frigid stare, presented her back to him, said something to the police officer, then strode past him out of the alley.

“Who was that and what did she want?” Rhys asked.

“Someone from Homeland Security.”

“Is this of interest to national security?” That hadn’t been in the file.

“Don’t think so. She’s in town for some kind of meeting and said she noticed the crime scene on her way to her hotel. She offered help if we needed it.”

“What would make her think we needed help on a mugging gone wrong?”

The officer shrugged. “Beats me. You know how these terrorist hunters are. Always thinking there’s more than meets the eye with every crime.”

“
What did you tell her?”

“That I’d pass on her offer. You on this case?”

“
Yeah.”

He handed a business card to Rhys. “Consider it passed.”

He glanced at the card and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Something wasn’t right about Baron’s death, but cross-dressing wasn’t a national security risk. No way would he put Baron, or Alexi, under unnecessary scrutiny. She had enough to deal with.

Rhys moved toward the group of forensic people huddled around the outline where Baron’s body had lain. The smell of blood and death, mixed with rotting garbage, stung his nose as he neared. The report said Baron had bled out in the alley. What a horrible way to go. Had he gone quickly or lingered, unable to call out for help? He hoped Alexi’s uncle had not suffered.

He liked Baron and would miss him and their friendly football wagers. He always bet on the sure thing. Baron always bet on the underdog, no matter the odds. After he’d won quite a few bucks from the old man, guilt overtook him and he dropped the bets from dollars to pennies.

Finding a friend in someone twice his age was something he hadn’t expected. The best way he could honor Baron now was to take care of Alexi and find his killer.

“Anything new?” he asked the cop who knelt on the ground.

“Nothing significant.” The forensic officer stood and stretched his legs. “Everything fits the coroner’s report. Looks like they struggled for the gun and the victim lost. We did find some blond hair near where he fell. Could be the perp’s. We’ll know better after we run some DNA matches.”

“Or it might not have anything to do with the crime,” he suggested. From his experience, nothing came that easy in a case.

“Yep. But we have to investigate every possible scenario.”

He understood that. Think of everything, use every available resource, and beat the enemy to the punch. Four years as a defensive back in college, Army Ranger training, and a stint in Iraq had taught him those lessons. Football, war, and crime fighting weren’t all that different.

“If you get anything out of the ordinary call me.” He glanced at his watch. The report had stated that the Dew Drop Inn Bar and Grill bartender who was on last night would be working the lunch shift today. Might as well check out the adjacent alley businesses while he waited for him.

No one had seen or heard anything last night, but then all three clerks said the doors leading to the alley were locked tight after dark. Too much gang activity in the area. Rhys left his card with each of them then walked down to the Dew Drop Inn.

The lunch crowd was in and the bartender wouldn’t stop to talk, so Rhys took a seat at the bar and ordered a roast beef on rye, eating it between asking interrogation questions.

“I was working a double last night, otherwise I wouldn’t have been here, but I didn’t serve anyone who fits the man you described,” the bartender said.

“What about a man wearing a slinky blue dress? Spot anyone like that?” Rhys tapped his iced tea glass for a refill.

The barkeeper snorted, his lip curling derisively. “This ain’t no gay bar. If you need a queer you need to go down three streets to the Flaming Tango. It’s crawling with ‘em.” He sloshed tea into the glass. “There was a woman wearing a blue dress, though. A spaghetti strap job.”

The words caught his attention. “What did she look like?”

“Slender. Medium height. Blond.”

Blond?

“She was a real beauty. Sexy as hell.” The bartender grabbed a towel and swiped at the tea he’d spilled on the counter. “She sat right here at the bar, kicking up her spiked heels, and flashing those rings around.”

“What kind of rings?”

“A huge diamond and some other stone. Never seen one like that before. If you ask me, she was looking for trouble. I warned her about flashing all those karats. I’m surprised they didn’t find
her
dead instead of the guy you described.”

“Did she leave alone?”

“Yeah.”

“What time?”

The bartender cleared the dish Rhys shoved to the edge of the bar and frowned at him. “How am I supposed to know? I’m not a friggin’ watch.” He slapped the lunch bill down in front of Rhys.

The burly, tattooed bartender knew when she’d left. Rhys would bet his paycheck on it. Any man worth his salt—especially one who had a good-looking, sexy woman kicking up her heels in front of him—would learn everything he could about her.
Rhys checked the bill and laid some money and a business card on the receipt.

The bartender scooped up the cash. “Hey, there’s no tip here.”

Rhys waved a ten-dollar bill at him. “When I get a good one, so will you.”

“Stupid pig,” the bartender muttered. “She said she was waiting for someone. A man.”

“Who?”

The bartender dug in his pocket and slid a slip of paper across the bar. “She left this. Said if he should come in I was to give it to him.”

He read the paper.
If you want a good time, come back tomorrow and ask for Delilah.
A prostitute? Baron was chasing a prostitute? It was hard to imagine Baron getting mixed up with that, and it was pretty unlikely a prostitute could take Baron down.

“Who’s the guy?”

“John Errol.”

“Does he come in a lot?”

“Several times a week. Always with a different bimbo on his arm.”

“Big guy? Little guy?”

“He ain’t no sissy, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Maybe he was the connection. He might have thought Baron was after the prostitute, too, and knocked him off.
Nah, that made no sense.
Why kill someone over a streetwalker, then rob him?

Rhys stood to leave. “Call me if you remember anything else or John Errol or the woman come in.”

He had nothing on Baron, but he had two names and a lead on the dress. Maybe one of them would pan out. He laid the ten-dollar bill on the bar. Ten bucks wasn’t much for his first tip toward solving Baron’s murder, but he had a sneaking suspicion that keeping it a secret from Alexi was going to cost him a lot more.

In spite of putting Rhys off, all Alexi could think about was the comforting circle of his arms. But
how could she tell him Baron was a shape shifter?

He’d freak. And God only knew what he’d do when he found out the rest of the secret.

No. She could never tell him.

Alexi threw her keys on the hall table and put her gun and badge in the drawer. She needed to make plans, and she didn’t need him distracting her.

For a moment she stood in the entry and waited, ears straining for any sound but her own breathing.

There was none.

With a sigh, she headed toward Baron’s office. Maybe searching through his PI papers for an explanation of why he’d mimic shifted would take her mind off Rhys’ most recent advances.

Finding a reason for shifting wouldn’t necessarily justify Baron’s actions, and she needed them justified. She needed to know that the last thing he’d ever done hadn’t been for personal gain. Shifting for personal gain went against everything the Turning Stone Society stood for. She didn’t want to believe his last actions had been unethical.

Sinking into Baron’s big leather chair, she twisted the bloodstone ring, an identical match to Baron’s, on her finger.
Who had Baron’s ring? Did they know what they had?

The mental image of Baron lying on the morgue slab popped into her head. The stone glowed softly under her touch, the luminous ribbons of dark red fire swirling within the deep green cabochon. Alexi shook her head to clear his image.
She dropped her hand onto her lap. The swirling ribbons stopped moving and the ring’s glow dimmed.

The red blinking light on the answering machine drew her attention. She punched the replay button. “Baron, this is Sylvia.” The voice hesitated a moment. “I really need to talk to you. I don’t know who else to trust. Please call me at 739-1666. I’ll be waiting.”

Alexi wrote the number down and cleared the answering machine. Then she dialed Sylvia.

“This is Sylvia. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Sylvia, this is Baron’s niece, Alexi Jordan. I got the message you left my uncle. He can’t meet you.” She paused in an effort to keep the tremor out of her voice. “He died this morning, unexpectedly. I’m sorry to have to tell you this way, but . . .” She swallowed. “Anyway, I’m sorry he can’t help you.”

Alexi hung up and disconnected the phone from the wall. No more explanations today. She’d review the files tomorrow and ask Rhys to help her call Baron’s clients. Right now she needed to reconnect with her uncle.

She removed the photograph book from Baron’s closet. The closet smelled like him. The scent of cherry pipe tobacco, which always clung to his leather-patched jacket, hung in the air—faint, yet clearly distinguishable.

He never smoked in the house. He didn’t want her breathing second-hand smoke, but she liked the way his pipe smelled. On a cool day, she’d rush over to him after he’d come inside from a smoke break, press her face against his chest, and breathe in the crisp, cherry smell.

She sat down in the middle of the bedroom floor and flipped the photograph pages, stopping at a picture of herself and Baron taken on her twenty-first birthday. That was the day Baron had given her the ring, hinting at a special future. She fingered the bloodstone ring that had belonged to her grandmother. “You are destined for greatness, dear niece,” he’d said.

But he hadn’t told her what that meant. Was she destined to be a great cop? A great woman? A great citizen? A great PI, like him? Or had he something more secret, more magical, in mind when he’d made those prophecies? Was she destined to follow in his footsteps?

“Why did you have to go and get yourself killed?” she shouted. “I need you, Baron!”

The floodgates opened and Alexi wept. She took Baron’s jacket from his closet and wrapped it around her. Enveloped in his familiar scent, lying on the chilly floor, she cried herself to sleep.

“It’s about time you got back, Rhys.” Gladys Montreal dragged him through the precinct doors and into the break room. “We’ve been waiting to start your birthday party.”

“Alexi’s not here. It’s not right to start without her,” Rhys said.

Gladys hooked his arm through her plump one and yanked. “Nonsense. She baked the cake.” She eyed the crushed confection sitting center stage on the table. “It might not be as pretty as one I’d have baked, but I’m sure she’d want you to eat it . . . before it gets any staler.”