A smile tugged the corners of his full lips. “But if you were outside, you’d be screaming, right?”
“Just a little.”
“Then we’d better use the ambulance as transport.” He raised his hand and tapped the wristcom’s interface.
She closed her eyes, listening to the rhythm of his speech rather than his actual words. There was something very soothing in the resonance of his voice. Something that made her just want to drift—
“Sam!”
The word leapt through her brain and jarred every nerve ending. She jumped, then opened her eyes and glared at him.
“What?”
“You were going to sleep.”
“I was just resting my eyes, for God’s sake.”
“Yeah, right.” He hesitated. Someone climbed into the front of the ambulance and the engine roared to life. “Tell me what happened in the office just before you were knocked unconscious.”
“Nothing happened. Max wouldn’t tell me anything, so I suggested his bird come down so I could talk to her.”
“Did he tell you she was up there?”
“No, but I sensed her presence the minute I walked in.”
“So she wanted her presence kept a secret?”
“Looks like it. Setting a fire to kill the two of us was going a trifle overboard, though.”
“Not if she was involved with Harry as well as Max.”
“Max usually has to pay for his fun, but I very much doubt Harry had to. And either way, it’s still an over-the-top reaction.” Her frown deepened. “I got the impression Max knew who Harry was with the night he died, but I got knocked out before he could say anything.”
Gabriel leaned back and regarded her thoughtfully. “What makes you think Harry was with someone? There’s no mention of it in the initial reports.”
“I asked Max the question. He said he didn’t know, but he was lying. He was so scared I could almost taste it.”
“Then maybe Max was involved.”
She shook her head. “That’s not Max’s style. He’ll push death in the form of drugs, but he’d never get involved in something like these murders. Max has standards, lines he won’t step over.”
“What did he say about supplying Harry with Jadrone?”
“Harry told him he didn’t need the drug anymore.”
Gabriel arched an eyebrow in surprise. “That’s not possible—not if Harry was as addicted as you say.”
“I know. He must have found some other drug to sate his need.”
“Supplied, perhaps, by our mysterious shape-changer. Anything else you remember about her?”
“Yeah, she tried to shit all over me.”
He smiled. “Birds shit when they’re scared. Fact of life.”
“And do you suffer this problem, Assistant Director?”
His smile widened, lending warmth to his angular features. “Hawks don’t scare as easily as budgies.”
Didn’t scare at all, from what she’d seen. In the brief time they’d known each other, they’d been shot at, bombed, even gassed. The only time she’d seen the slightest hint of fear in Gabriel’s eyes was when his brother Stephan had gone missing in the explosion at the SIU headquarters. Family mattered more than personal safety, it seemed.
His wristcom buzzed into the brief silence. He gave her an apologetic look, though she wasn’t entirely sure why, then answered it. And the warmth lingering on his face quickly disappeared.
“What?” she said, the minute he hung up.
His expression was grim as he glanced at her. “It would seem our serial killer has just accelerated her schedule.”
GABRIEL LEANED SIDEWAYS AND BANGED on the communications hatch. The small door opened and light flooded in. Sam hissed.
“Change of direction. Head for 280 Elizabeth Street.”
The ambulance driver nodded and the hatch closed, enclosing them in darkness once again.
“Who are you dumping me with?”
Though her voice was even, her underlying anger was something he could almost taste. She was so pale she looked like death, and the thought chilled him. He didn’t want to lose another partner, but he almost had, yet again. “What makes you think I’m dumping you?”
“Well, maybe because you’ve used any and all excuses to keep me away from everything except paperwork?”
“I’ve done it for your own safety.”
“Yeah, right. Tell that to someone who hasn’t spent ten years with the State Police.”
“And the mess you made interviewing Max proved just how capable you are as an SIU officer, didn’t it?”
It wasn’t a fair statement. Had their positions been reversed, he doubted if he’d have coped any better. And the Jadrone would definitely have killed him.
Her hands clenched briefly by her sides. It was the only sign of the fury he could feel pouring from her. “One of these days you’re going to have to trust me.”
“I do trust you.” With both his and his brother’s lives. He just didn’t trust fate.
Not that he had much choice at this particular moment. As much as he did want to dump her somewhere safe, he actually couldn’t. There were only two people he’d trust with her safety. And of those, Karl was still on vacation with the family, and Stephan had a series of high-level meetings to attend.
“Then start acting like you do,” Sam countered. “Stop giving me inane tasks and start giving me some real work.” She raised a hand, as if to stop his answer, then closed her eyes and leaned back against the ambulance wall. “It doesn’t matter. Forget about it.”
He watched a trickle of sweat roll down her pale cheek. “Sam, 280 Elizabeth Street is where the murder happened.”
She opened her eyes, and her smoky-blue gaze swept him from head to foot. Then a slightly bitter smile touched her lips. “Ah. You can’t dump me. You haven’t got anyone you trust to watch over me.”
She was altogether too perceptive. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“I think the question should be are you sure I’m up to this?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be a good idea to puke all over the evidence,” he said, half in jest.
Her gaze narrowed. “I won’t puke. I won’t even comment, if that’s what you prefer.”
He grimaced. It was times like these, when all the laughter, all the warmth, had died from her face, that he really regretted what he had to do. Stephan was right; they did work well together. But two people had died simply because they’d had the ill fortune to be his partner. She would not be the third.
The ambulance jolted to a stop. She winced.
“Watch your eyes,” he said, then opened the door.
The light flooded in, and though she made no sound, her eyes narrowed to little more than slits through which he could see the glimmer of tears. He climbed out, then held out a hand. After a slight hesitation, she accepted it and got out.
Above, the sky was leaden, the clouds so heavy they looked ready to burst. Thunder rumbled—an ominous sound that vibrated through his body.
She stopped and breathed deeply. Electricity tingled across his fingers where they touched her arm, a sensation that was warm rather than threatening. It was almost as if she were sucking in the power of the storm itself.
“You okay?” he asked.
Though she was still unsteady on her feet, she definitely looked better than she had five minutes ago. But that didn’t really surprise him. When her feet had been cut to the bone by laser fire, she’d still managed to walk, when most people would have been unconscious.
“Yes.” She took another deep breath, and color began to warm her cheeks. “Let’s go.”
She shook off his hand and walked unaided into the building. But despite the show of strength, her hand trembled when she punched the elevator button.
“Maybe you should stay down here and wait,” he suggested, indicating the nearby bench.
She gave him a wry smile. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily now.”
He was beginning to see that. He followed her into the elevator and pressed the button for the twenty-third floor. The doors closed and the elevator zoomed upward.
She gulped at the sudden movement, and sweat began to redarken the red-gold strands of hair near her temple. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, her full lips pursed. Fighting her stomach, he thought.
She had guts; there was no doubt about it. If he had been in the market for a partner, he certainly couldn’t have found a better one.
The elevator came to a smooth stop. Once the door had opened, he led the way through the foyer. Two State Police officers guarded the door at the end of the corridor. He dug out his ID and flashed it at them. The two men stepped aside, allowing them access into another corridor.
The metallic odor hit almost immediately. The bloodshed had to be bad if he could smell it this far away from the body.
A third officer glanced up from a com-unit. “AD Stern?”
Gabriel nodded. “And Agent Ryan.”
The detective glanced at Sam and almost instantly dismissed her. Either he wasn’t very perceptive or he didn’t care for female officers. Or maybe he was just plain stupid. Gabriel looked at the man’s ID. “What have we got, O’Neal?”
“A woman, mid-twenties, in the reception area. Multiple knife wounds to the throat and stomach. Apparently she’s the resident doctor here.”
“Time of death?”
“Estimated to be around twelve-thirty.”
During lunchtime, so they probably wouldn’t find many witnesses. “No sign of forced entry?”
The detective shook his head. “No witnesses so far, either.”
“What about the security cameras?”
“Several. We’re investigating them now.”
“I want copies sent to my office.”
The detective nodded, and Gabriel continued to the small reception area.
It was worse than any of the previous murders. Blood had sprayed across the white walls, and splashed over the cheerful flowery patterns on the carpet and across the pristine whiteness of the reception desk. The body lay between the desk and the sofa, one hand outstretched, reaching for the nearby phone.
He glanced at Sam. She was sheet white. “Why don’t you sit while I check out the body?”
“Why? Afraid I’ll fall over and contaminate the crime scene?” She crossed her arms and glared at him mutinously. His anger surged, made worse by the fact that he had only himself to blame for her reaction. If he hadn’t treated her like shit, she wouldn’t be flinging it back at him. “Check the damn desk, then. See if there’s anything there.”
She nodded, and he squatted beside the body. Overhead, the CSM buzzed. “ID, please.”
“Assistant Director Gabriel Stern and Agent Sam Ryan, SIU,” he replied absently.
There was nothing patient, or gentle, in this woman’s death. The murderer had slit her throat before gutting her—and had probably done so while she was still alive. There was tape stretched across her mouth and a look of terror permanently etched on her face. If it was the work of the same killer, something must have gone terribly wrong. Either that, or the madness that had set the killer on this path was getting progressively worse.
“It’s not madness; it’s anger,” Sam said softly.
He looked up. She wasn’t even looking at him, but somehow, she seemed to read his thoughts. It was almost as if there was some kind of connection between them—yet that was impossible, given that he’d learned to raise shields so strong that not even his twin could share his thoughts. “What do you mean?”
She motioned almost absently toward the victim as she continued to leaf through the paperwork on the desk. “The murderer was angry with this woman. There was no care taken here, no time. Look at the way the victim’s throat was slashed. Another eighth of an inch, and our killer wouldn’t have even hit the carotid.”
He swept his gaze around the room. No ashtray full of cigarettes was sitting on any of the tables, and there was no immediate evidence that the killer had even stayed to watch this victim die. In fact, the only thing linking this victim with the other murders was the hole in her gut and the color of her hair.
“Why the anger here, though?” He glanced back at Sam, interested in hearing her observations—or was it something else? Not the training of a cop, but a perception coming from her developing psychic talents? The clouded look to her eyes certainly suggested it was the latter. “Why not with the previous three victims?”
“That’s presuming it’s the same killer.”
He nodded. She pursed her lips, her gaze finally rising from the desk and sweeping the room.
“Maybe in this case, it’s something as simple as the white coat the victim is wearing.” She hesitated, frowning. “I don’t think the killer was expecting a doctor.”
He frowned. “Yet the precision of the wounds on the first two victims indicates the killer has some sort of medical background. Our killer might even be a doctor. Why react so strongly against a fellow practitioner?”
Her gaze came to rest on his. Her blue-gray eyes were suddenly unclouded and amused. “Find the answer to that and you might just find your killer.”
True. He rose and crossed to the windows. Outside, rain had begun to sheet down, and on the street below, men and women scurried for cover. This street was always busy—surely someone, somewhere, had seen something.
The killer hadn’t cut an escape hole in the smoke-colored glass, so if he or she was a shapechanger, the killer certainly hadn’t escaped that way this time. He headed into the doctor’s office to check the windows there, but there was nothing. Nor did anything appear disturbed or out of place in the room itself. Meaning their killer had come in and out through the front doors—either in human or nonhuman form—and had to be on the security tapes.
He returned to the reception area. Sam was looking through the diary.
“Anything?”
She shook her head. “No appointments during lunch. Looks like the postman had just been here, though.” She motioned toward a stack of mail, half of which had been opened.
“We’ll track him down, see if he saw anything.” He frowned and studied the corpse for several seconds. “Someone must have seen the killer leave this time. If she left in human form, she would have had blood all over her.”
“Has anyone checked the restrooms?”
“You up to it?” The trembling in her hands had definitely eased and color was back in her cheeks.
She nodded and walked from the room. He squatted next to the body again. It didn’t make any sense. The killer had been so careful up until now, so why do this? And why accelerate the time frame? He scanned the room to check if they’d missed anything, but there was nothing he could see. He swore softly and thrust a hand through his hair as he pushed to his feet. They needed to catch this psycho before he or she killed again, and yet there was nothing—absolutely nothing—here that could help them.
His wristcom beeped. “Yes?” he said, scanning the room yet again.
“Think you’d better come down to the restroom.”
Sam’s voice was devoid of all inflection, giving no hint as to what she’d found. “On my way.”
He made his way over to the main door. O’Neal stared at his com-unit, viewing the security tapes.
“Anything?” Gabriel said.
O’Neal shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
“Did anyone check the restrooms either on this floor or on the floors above and below?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
Slack as well as dumb. Gabriel shook his head, took off his plastic glove and dumped it in the nearby bin. Then he headed down the hall to the restrooms. Sam was waiting outside the ladies’—which could have meant their killer was a female, as the presence of Heat at the last crime scene seemed to imply. Or maybe it was simply a case of the ladies’ room being closer.
“What did you find?” he said, the moment he saw her.
“A f
ew spots of blood splattered across the mirror. A bloodstained sweater wrapped in plastic and stuffed deep into the trash can.” She pushed the door open and entered. Her movements were still slow, but becoming steadier.
He could only shake his head in amazement. She shouldn’t even be alive, for Christ’s sake, and here she was, walking and talking almost normally. Whatever race she was, it was a damn strong one.
“So our murderer came down here to clean up?”
“It would appear so.”
The trash can’s cabinet door stood ajar. The plastic bag was easy enough to see, wedged about halfway down. A CSM hovered nearby, light flashing to indicate it was recording.
He put on fresh gloves, reached into the bin and grabbed the plastic bag, holding it by two fingers in an effort not to foul whatever prints might be available. Blood smeared the plastic inside and out.
“Military green,” she murmured. “Available in any disposal store.”
“Yes.” He tapped his wristcom and called O’Neal, instructing the young detective to bring the crime kit down. Then he glanced back at her. “Where are the blood spots?”
She pointed to an arc of five microscopic spots. Maybe the murderer had flicked her hair, spraying droplets across the mirror, but how had Sam spotted them? He could barely see them, and his hawk-sharpened senses were more attuned to things like this.
“The murderer is desperate.” Sam stared at the spots, her expression becoming distant once again. “She knows we’re closing in. She needs to get the job finished. Needs to fulfill promises made.”
Her voice was as distant as her expression. He’d seen this type of thing before—the SIU employed several psychics who could read the emotions that lingered in otherwise empty rooms. But Sam had been tested repeatedly for psychic gifts, and she had repeatedly come up negative. That is, until she reached the SIU, where she’d registered as a neutral—a feat that should have been impossible.
Finley had said that it implied her abilities were so strong that she was able to void all the tests done on her.
“What promises?” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to jar her out of her trancelike state.