Blood Score (10 page)

A man’s voice, and the guy sounded pissed.

“Who the hell was that?” Angel questioned.

Cronan checked the caller ID.

“The guy knew her well enough not to leave a name. Caller ID says it’s Bryce Peterson. Does that name ring a bell to you?”

“
No. I haven’t heard it through this case or anywhere else.” Angel made a note of the name, and Cronan gave her the phone number. “Is that the last message?”

“
Yeah,” he said. “I’ll check her bedroom.”

Gabe caught her eye at the same time her cell phone rang. Angel reached into her pocket to retrieve it.

“I’ll catch up.” She nodded as he headed down a hall.

***

When Angel looked down at her phone display, she recognized the incoming number. On instinct—in a move she’d think a lot about later—she went looking for a private spot to talk.

“
I gotta take this. Give me a sec.” She called out to Cronan and headed outside. When she was alone and beyond earshot, she answered the call. “Hello.”

“
Detective Ramirez?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Oh, uh…I wasn’t sure who would answer. I’m glad it’s you. This is Ethan Chandler.”

Angel felt her heart ramp up to a new level, and she had to steady her breathing.

“How did you get this number, Mr. Chandler? On the business card I gave you, the number is for the station dispatcher.”

“
Reading business cards isn’t a strong suit of mine. But since you called my cell earlier, it was easier for me to hit redial. I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

Angel felt the heat rush to her face as Ethan explained that his cell has
“a voice” to help him navigate its system. He made assurances that her business card would not get tossed. He had a card scanner and a specialized computer that had voice controls so he wouldn’t be disadvantaged.

She took a deep breath after remembering her call to Ethan on their way to his residence.

“No, it’s okay. What can I do for you?” When her voice cracked, she winced.

“
I know this might sound like an odd request, but I hoped we could talk, face to face.”

“
My partner and I can meet you somewhere. Would that be convenient?”

“
No, I mean…just you. I’ll explain when I see you.” Ethan suggested meeting in a public place at a restaurant bar down the street from where he lived. He wasn’t in a rush to do it. “Will nine tonight work for you?”

It didn’t take her long to make up her mind.

“Yeah, that’ll work. See you then.” She ended the call and stared straight ahead. She hadn’t hesitated, and she didn’t regret what she’d done—at least, not yet. Not even when the voice in her head said,
Ramirez, you’re a damned idiot!

The guy might have called because he felt comfortable with her. She’d been the one who had talked to him most. He could have something new for their investigation, but as Cronan pointed out, Ethan was on the suspect list until they ruled him out.

“Who was that on the phone?”

Gabe’s voice made her leap out of her skin. She turned to face him, unsure how much he had overheard of her conversation. Angel stared into his unwavering blue eyes and had no idea what she’d say.

Cronan stared down at Angel who looked as if she’d swallowed a chicken bone. She blinked a couple of times—wide-eyed and gorgeous—before she glanced at her phone. For a minute, he gave thought to check if his fly was open.

“
Sorry. Did I scare you?” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his slacks and gave a quick glance at his zipper. “Was that Schumacher with an update?”

“
No.” She shook her head and swallowed, hard. “What’s up? Did you…find something?”

The awkwardness between them had returned. Since his fly wasn’t the reason, his next thought was that he’d intruded on something very private. From the look on Angel’s face, she wasn’t in a sharing mood. He narrowed his eyes, unsure whether he should press her with more questions on her call or talk about what really bothered him—the personal tension between them. But after Angel walked by him and headed for Olivia Davenport’s front door, he’d missed his opportunity to clear the air.

“Yeah, one of the techs found something actually,” he said. “In her bedroom.”

He directed Angel toward the back of the condo into the master suite. The bedroom was as beautiful as the rest of the place. It had oversized furniture, fancy bed linens and pillows, with long flowing white drapes to add drama to the high ceilings. The room looked like a high-end magazine layout from Architectural Digest.

Except for one thing.

“
Apparently Olivia Davenport had secrets,” he said.

Cronan pointed down to an open black leather suitcase on the carpet. One of the evidence techs had found the case under the bed, filled with sadomasochistic devices. A strap-on dildo, fur-lined handcuffs, leather whips and blindfolds—S&M contraptions that he had no idea what they were used for.

Well, almost no idea
.

“
Looks like Olivia had an alter-ego. This suitcase is filled with classic bondage and discipline gear, right down to the ball gag and spreader bar. Check out her bed.” He pointed to sections of an elaborately carved metal headboard and footboard that appeared to be scraped. “These marks look like someone was bound. Maybe a chain or metal handcuffs scraped off the black paint.”

Angel looked closer and grimaced.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she muttered. “Miss high society got tempted by the dark side of the Force.”

“
And check out the sturdy metal hooks positioned around the room, in odd places. They don’t look like plant holders.” He pointed to the closest hook and a few others. “I don’t want to know what that one over her bed was used for.”

“
Oh, come on, Gabe. Of course you want to know.”

“
Okay…you got me.” He glanced at her sideways.

“
Do you think she was the one cracking the whip or the submissive?”

“
If I had to guess, I’d say she liked being in charge, but…” He shrugged.

“
But what?”

“
This is all pretty damning stuff, on the surface,” he said. “Kinky sex points to a dangerous lifestyle, but she probably kept her second life secret from her friends. We may have to go directly to the players to see what she was up to. Something here could lead us to motive, but this crowd relies on discretion. They don’t talk much.”

“
Yeah, and in Chicago, who knows where she might have gone?”

“
Someone like Olivia would have fewer options if she wanted to be discreet. There are places a person like her could go. I can check with some of my sources.”

“
You have sources in the rough sex trade?”

Cronan shrugged, but didn’t answer. He had something else on his mind.

“But this doesn’t feel right, Angel.” He walked around the room and picked up a photo of her smiling father off the dresser and showed it to his partner. “’Cause I can’t see her donning leather with daddy watching.”

“
Now that you mention it, that does appear a little bent and twisted, but isn’t that the whole point?”

“
Just hear me out. This girl had been tied to daddy’s purse strings her whole life. If she’d wanted to rebel, she could have found other ways to do that. This feels…secret. If she’d intended to make a point with daddy, she would’ve done it in other ways, too. Don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “A woman like this has got to have a maid service. It doesn’t feel right that she’d leave a suitcase under her bed where any nosey maid could’ve found it.” He leaned against the dresser, set down the photo, and crossed his arms.

“
Yeah, but those scratches on her headboard,” Angel said, “and the metal hooks positioned around the room. They’re worn, and they don’t seem haphazard to me. None of it goes with this pricey décor. A woman as meticulous as Olivia Davenport, she wouldn’t have settled for anything less than perfection when it came to decorating her place…unless the hooks served a purpose that was more important than a seal of approval from
House Beautiful
.”

After his partner made her point, she added,
“I can see keeping an open mind, Gabe. But sometimes you gotta take a strap-on dildo at face value.”

“
Thanks for that image.” He nodded. “’Preciate it.”

“
Anytime.” She smiled.

“
The techs will inspect this gear for DNA, epithelial cells, and fingerprints, but that will take time. My gut tells me this is wrong. It’s a smoke screen. A diversion.”

“
Then let’s keeping digging. We’ll follow the evidence. Isn’t that what you always tell me?”

“
Yeah, guess so.”

Gabe looked perplexed by what they’d found, and she saw his mind working the case on his own. Despite her encouraging words to him about sticking to the evidence, Angel had a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. After seeing the bondage gear, she didn’t want to think about Ethan being involved in Olivia’s dark secret. Yet she couldn’t get images of him out of her head. In truth she could easily picture him being the submissive to a dominant lover’s obsession, but was he capable of playing a more forceful role? Either way, it scared her to think of him leading a deviant lifestyle, no matter who cracked the whip.

Why had she agreed to meet him?

She’d lied to Gabe. Well, not exactly lied, but she sure hadn’t been up front about her phone call from Ethan. Even now, she knew she wouldn’t tell her partner. Something had driven her to keep her rendezvous with the violinist private, and she couldn’t help but wonder.

Was that how Olivia’s secret life had started?

***

After Angel told him she had something personal to do, Cronan didn’t put up a fuss when she said she’d see him at the station in the morning. He had his own private matter to take care of—to further the investigation into Olivia Davenport’s murder—and he’d chosen not to involve his partner.

Where he had to go, Cronan didn’t want Angel with him.

He needed to shower and change clothes before he hit the street again, but he had another reason to make a side trip to his place. Jack would be waiting for him. With the sun down, he pulled his vehicle up to his front door in a compound that was locked and secured by a heavy-duty steel gate that closed behind him on remote. No one from the street could see past the gate to know anyone lived behind it.

He unlocked his front door and flicked on the lights. A pale yellow glow came off the industrial fixtures overhead. His place was nothing more than a converted warehouse on the fringe of downtown Chicago. He had no neighbors and got his mail from a post office box near the station house. Although his living arrangement had a stark empty feel—without even a remote resemblance to a conventional home—it suited him. He could pick up and go without looking back. Nothing bound him to the place.

His living quarters said more about his life than a thousand words.

The wide-open space was defined by brick walls, exposed pipes, and air ducts with sheets of corrugated metal streaked by rust for ambience. He had his utilities, a simple kitchen and bathroom, and a loft bedroom elevated on steel girders and accessible by a metal stairway. His place had function, with wooden crates and mismatched furniture he’d accumulated over the years.

It contained nothing personal.

After his parents had been killed, he’d become detached by choice. He figured if he didn’t care about anything, he wouldn’t have much to lose. His life had been set adrift to float wherever the current would take him, an aimless existence that gave him no sense of belonging anywhere.

The foster care system had taught him a bare bones way of living, institutional-style, where a garbage bag contained the whole of a child’s possessions. With the exception of his friendship with Manny, he’d never gotten too attached to anything or anyone. He’d never placed much value on material things and hadn’t bought much new, even when he could afford it. Cronan paid his bills and focused on his work. That was it. He knew people, but he had few acquaintances that he could call real friends, especially after Manny died. Angel was the only fragile link he had to a best friend he could never replace.

Besides Angel and his work, nothing else mattered to him—except for One-eyed Jack.

The battle-scarred old yellow tabby was a twenty-pound bruiser with only one good eye. Two years ago, a week after Manny died, the cat had crawled through an open window and adopted him. Cronan had no idea why Jack claimed such a messed up human being, but he’d never questioned the cat’s marginal taste in roommates.

Jack had come to stay and from that day forward, Cronan had a reason to come home.

At first he’d wondered what it said about him that the only commitment he’d made to another living soul was to take in a scarred old tomcat, but that wasn’t even close to the truth. In reality, the stray had picked
him
, not the other way around. Jack had been the mature one in their relationship.

Only minutes after unlocking his front door, Gabe looked down to see One-eyed Jack rubbing against his leg with his tail up. His purr sounded like an old diesel engine.

“Hey, buddy. How was your day?”

He flicked on the fluorescent light in his makeshift kitchen, shrugged out of his holster and emptied his pockets on the counter.

“You hungry?”

As usual, Jack looked at him with one good eye and yammered about his misadventures, mewling non-stop in cat speak. There were days when Cronan thought he understood Jack, like today. Jack usually waited for him to open a tin of cat food and serve the treat on a paper plate. They’d both eat with Cronan standing over his kitchen sink and Jack chowing down on the kitchen counter.

Today Jack surprised him.

The yellow tabby didn’t wait for his dinner. The cat lumbered across the concrete warehouse floor toward a spiral metal stair, an emergency fire exit that led up to a high louvered window Jack used to come and go. In the shadows beneath the stairs, Cronan saw a dark shape on his floor, barely visible under the light. He had to step closer and kneel down for a better look.

Jack had brought him a dead mouse.

“
I appreciate you sharing your mouse, pal.” He winced. “But next time, could you make it a whole one?”

***