Books by Maggie Shayne (210 page)

Police?

She frowned, tugged the sash around her waist and tied it as she scuffed to the door and peered through the peephole.
 
Two me in police uniforms stood at her door.
 
Beyond the parking-lot gate, she could see a black-and-white car with all the right emblems and lights attached.

She unlocked the door, but left the chain on, and opened it just a little.
 
"Look, I don't want to piss you guys off, but I'm gonna need to call the station and verify that you're really cops, okay?"

One rolled his eyes.
 
He was heavyset, with a face that reminded her of a panda, dark circles around the eyes and heavy on the jowl.

The other one was younger, a blue-eyed blonde who belonged on a tanning-oil commercial.
 
"That's understandable, considering the nature of the complaint you filed you last week, and then the break-in," he said.

She blinked.
 
"Why are you here?
 
You're not the cops who where handling that for me."

"Well, there have been some developments, ma'am.
 
Your case might overlap another one we're working, so—"

"Do you know something about this maniac who's been stalking me?"

"Maybe.
 
Do you?" asked the older one.

"Wait here."
 
She closed the door, turned the locks, glanced again at the car to see that they were city cops, then flipped open the phone book and found the number for headquarters.
 
She got a fast answer and a quick verification that yes, two officers by the names of Strickland and Dunst were currently standing at her door.

"Thank you," she said, and hung up the phone.
 
Then she took the little gun from her pocket and tucked it beneath the huge leaves of a houseplant.
 
Finally she opened the door.

"I'm Officer Dunst," said the boy.
 
"This is Officer Strickland.
 
We need to ask you a few questions, ma'am.
 
Do you mind if we come inside?"

"Of course not.
 
Sorry about the delay.
 
You'll be happy to know you're legit."
 
Neither of them so much as cracked a smile at her little joke.
 
She stepped aside and let them precede her in; then she closed the door again, not bothering with the locks.
 
She shouldn't need locks with two cops and a gun in a potted plant nearby.
 
She waved them toward the sofa and took a seat in the chair opposite them.
 
"So what is this about?"

"Tommy Campbell," Strickland told her.
 
"You know him?"

"Of course I know him.
 
We worked together at The Crypt—that's a bar, not an actual crypt, of course."

"We know."
 
Dunst's voice was softer.
 
"Can you tell us the nature of your relationship with him, ma'am?"

Little chills were racing up and down her nape.
 
"What's going on here?
 
Is Tommy in some kind of trouble?"

"Just answer the questions, ma'am.
 
Are you involved with Tommy Campbell?"

”Involved?
 
No, I'm not
involved
with Tommy.
 
We're friends.
 
We work together."
 
She licked her lips and the cops stared at her, waiting.
 
As if they knew there was more.
 
"He... he may be nursing a little crush on me."

"What makes you think so?"

She shrugged.
 
"I don't know.
 
He's never acted on it, never asked me out or anything, but he just gives off that vibe, you know?"
 
Great, she thought.
 
Now she sounded like Michael.

"When was the last time you saw him, Mary?" Dunst asked.

She frowned, a sudden fear gnawing at her gut.
 

"Last night.
 
I gave him a ride home from the bar.
 
It was raining, and he didn't want to walk, so—what is going on?"

"What time did you trop him off?"

She closed her eyes, thought back.
 
"We closed at two.
 
It probably took us twenty minutes or so to get the customers out of there, and then we had clean-up.
 
He only lives a few blocks—I don't know.
 
It must have been close to three."

"You're sure about that?"

"Yes."

"Anyone else who can verify that?"

She frowned.
 
"Can't you just ask Tommy?"

The police officers exchanged a look.
 
It was Dunst who finally spoke.
 
"Ms. McLean, Tommy Campbell was murdered last night."

She felt herself go numb, and her mind seemed unwilling to process the words.
 
It was if he'd spoken in some other language.
 
Then they came blear, and she shook her head in denial.
 
"No, that's not possible.
 
Tommy is...
 
Tommy is..."

"Dead, Ms. McLean," Strickland said.

She closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly as if to block out the man's words.
 
"But how?
 
Why?"

"Someone tied him to his bed, doused him with gasoline and set him on fire."

"Strickland, don't—" Dunst warned.

Too late, though.
 
She'd heard the horror, and her stomach heaved.
 
She shot to her feet, lunging through her bedroom into the bathroom, and vomited.
 
She sank to her knees in front of the toilet.

Dunst came in behind her.
 
"Are you all right?"

"I don't... understand this.
 
Why?
 
Why would any one hurt Tommy?
 
He's gentle—he's harmless."

He reached past her, flushed the toilet, and then he wet a cloth in the sink and handed it to her.
 
Mary wiped her face and hands and got to her feet.

"You were the last one to see him alive, Mary," Officer Dunst said.

She met his eyes and shook her head side to side.
 
"No, I wasn't.
 
The person who killed him was."
 
The man averted his gaze, ad then she knew.
 
"My God, do you think
I
had something to do with this?"

"We have to question you.
 
It's standard procedure."
 
He took her arm, led her back through the bedroom toward the living room, his eyes scanning, seeming to take in everything.
 
"We need to know everything that happened last night, up to when you dropped Tommy off."

She stopped walking when she reached the living room.
 
The other cop was on his feet, waiting.
 
"I've told you everything.
 
Tommy needed a ride.
 
I gave him one.
 
He got out and went into his building, and I came home."

"And that's all?"

She nodded.

"You didn't see anyone strange hanging around outside his place when you dropped him off?"

She shook her head slowly.
 
"It was pouring rain.
 
The streets were empty."

"What about at the bar?" Dunst asked.
 
"Anyone new been hanging around?
 
Maybe paying extra attention to him?"

She thought of Michael.
 
She should tell them about him.
 
He could verify her story, confirm that Tommy had been alive when she had left him and account for her whereabouts for the rest of the night.
 
But something told her that would be a mistake, so she just shook her head.

"After you came home, what did you do?"

She blinked slowly.
 
"I went to bed.
 
I didn't get up again until you two woke me just now."

"You didn't leave again?
 
Say between four-thirty and 5:00 a.m.?"

She shook her head.
 
"Is that... is that when it happened?"

They didn't reply.
 
It occurred to her that telling them about Michael wouldn't do either of them any good anyway.
 
Tommy had been killed after Michael had left here.

Tommy was killed after Mich
ael left here.

She sank onto the sofa and looked up at them.

"Someone must have seen something.
 
Someone must know who did this."

Dunst nodded.
 
"If someone does, we'll find out."

She sighed and lowered her head.
 
"I hope to God you do."

The cops looked at each other again.
 
Dunst shrugged.
 
"We may have more questions for you later on, once we learn more.
 
Don't leave town for a while, all right?"

She lifted her head sharply.
 
"I'm a suspect, aren't I?"

"Everyone's a suspect until we rule them out.
 
We haven't rule you out yet," Strickland said.
 
He went to the door, opened it and stepped outside.

"I'll be right out," Dunst called.
 
"I'm gonna get her alternate telephone numbers so we can reach her."

With a nod, Strickland left.

Officer Dunst knelt in front of the sofa.
 
"Mary, this is between us, all right?
 
We think Tommy might have been your stalker.
 
Strickland thinks you found out and murdered him.
 
I don't."

"I appreciate that."

"There was some evidence found at his place that links him to... some other cases.
 
Unusual cases."

"You're being awfully vague, Officer Dunst."

"I'm sorry.
 
I have to be."
 
He took a card from his pocket and handed it to her.
 
"Theses people can help sort all this out.
 
I know them.
 
They're good people."

She glanced at the card.
 
It had the stylized initials S.I.S. across the top, and underneath, in smaller type, it read Supernatural investigations Services.

"Supernatural?"

"You didn't get it from me, understand?
 
This conversation never happened."

She nodded slowly.
 
"What the hell is going on, Office Dunst?"

"I don't know."
 
He averted his eyes when he said it, as if maybe he did know at last a little more than he was telling her.
 
"Give me your other numbers in case Strickland calls me on it."

She recited her cell phone number, which he scribbled quickly.
 
Then he gave her a reassuring smile and left.
 
She stood in the doorway, shocked ad trembling, until he got into the car with his partner and drove away.

Then she closed the door, turned the locks and sank to the floor, shaking.

Michael could have done this.

Michael didn't have anything to do with it, and you know it.

He had time, after leaving her.
 
He hadn't seemed to like Tommy.
 
But why?
 
Why would he do such a horrible thing?

What if he were the stalker after all?

He's not.
 
He can't be.

But there
was
a stalker, and it couldn't be Tommy.
 
The police were wrong about that.
 
What if the real maniac had killed Tommy because he know of Tommy's crush on her?
 
Was it a jealous rage of some kind?
 
Had this so-called evidence been planted at Tommy's place just to make him look guilty?

Her mind whirled with questions, and one gruesome image she couldn't erase from her mind—that of poor Tommy Campbell, burning alive in his bed.

Something was wrong.

The bar was dark, only a single car in the parking lot beside his when he pulled in just after sundown.
 
Mary's car.
 
She tensed when his Jaguar's headlights illuminated her where she sat on her front step.
 
He felt her fear rise up.
 
It was palpable, even when he wasn't trying to read her thoughts.
 
He quickly killed the engine and doused the lights, so she could see him.

Even then, though, her fear only eased a minute amount.

He opened the door and got out, and she got to her feet and came toward him.
 
Her face was puffy, eyes red, as if she'd been crying.

"What's happened?"

She held his gaze.
 
"Tommy.
 
You remember Tommy, from last night?"

He nodded.

"He's dead.
 
Someone killed him."

He went to her, put his arms around her to pull her close, the instinct to comfort her overriding his certainty that she was afraid of him all over again.
 
But she didn't let him.
 
She pulled away, and he let his arms fall to his sides as a clod dread settled over his heart.
 
She suspected him.

"The police suspect me," she said.

It was the last thing he'd expected to hear.
 
"What?
 
Why on earth...?"

He was killed around 5:00 a.m. they said.
 
I was the last person to see him alive.
 
The last they know of, at least."

"My God."

She kept her eyes on her shoes.
 
He looked past her, noticing the sign taped to the entrance.
 
"Closed due to death in the family."
 
He shook his head in disgust.
 
Tommy had been young, early twenties at most.
 
And while Michael had found the boy mildly annoying, he was certain the kid had done nothing to deserve this.

He looked at Mary again.
 
She was barely holding herself together.

"How did it happen?"

"He was tied to his bed and set on fire."
 
She met his eyes briefly.
 
"You're supposed to be some kind of psychic.
 
Why didn't you see this coming?"

He shook his head.
 
"I don't see everything, Mary.
 
I don't have any connection to Tommy."

"You don't have any connection to me, either."

"Yes, I do.
 
You know good and well I do.
 
You feel it just as strongly as I do, Mary.
 
Don't deny that.
 
Not now."

She lifted her brows.
 
"Why shouldn't I deny it, when you refuse to explain it to me!
 
I know you aren't telling me everything, Michael."

He was silent for a moment.
 
She wanted to know everything.
 
The last mortal he'd trusted enough to tell everything to had blasted a hole though her own head in reply.
 
Mary might not react as badly as that.
 
But she would certainly pull away from him, and if she did, the killer would find her alone, unprotected.

He couldn't tell her everything.
 
But clearly, he had to tell her something.
 
"The bond we share is one of blood," he told her choosing every word with care.
 
"The antigen."

"You have it, too?"

He only nodded.
 
He would not tell her the rest... what he was.
 
"Mary, I had no reason to want to harm Tommy."

She licked her lips

"You shouldn't have come here, alone like this," he went on.
 
"You could be in danger, you know that."

She shrugged.
 
'I brought the gun.
 
I knew you'd be looking for me here.
 
And I needed to see you.
 
Besides, the police think Tommy might have been the stalker.
 
Apparently that's my motive for killing him."

"What makes them think that?"

She shook her head.
 
"They wouldn't say.
 
I'm not even suppose to know that much."
 
Clearing her throat, she walked toward her car, parked beside his black Jag.
 
"The police wanted to know if anyone was with me when I dropped Tommy off last night.
 
Anyone who could verify that he was alive when I left him.
 
But I didn't tell them about you."

It as good that she hadn't told them.
 
He didn't need the kind of snooping and investigation that would have resulted if she had.
 
But if it would clear her of suspicion...

"It wouldn't have mattered, anyway.
 
He was killed after you left my place.
 
You couldn't swear that I hadn't gone back and done this thing... any more than I could swear you hadn't."

He chose to ignore the latter comment.
 
"What evidence do they have against you?" he asked.

"I already told you, I was the last person to see him alive, and if he was the stalker, then..."

"That's circumstantial.
 
Is there anything physical?"

She frowned.
 
"I don't know.
 
How could there be, Michael?
 
I was never there."

"Never mind.
 
I'll find out.
 
But first, we need to get you somewhere safe."

She was dangerously close to tears.
 
"I'm not suppose to leave town."

He thought about that a moment.
 
If he took her away and the police couldn't reach her, their suspicion would increase exponentially.
 
"Do you have a cell phone?"
 
She nodded.
 
"And did you give the police the number?"

"Yeah."

"Good.
 
I want you to get into your car and follow me back to your apartment, all right?
 
We'll leave your car there, and you can come with me."

She shook her head.
 
"I'm not going anywhere with you, Michael."

He held her gaze for a long time, then finally sighed, giving up.
 
"You think it's me.
 
You think I killed Tommy don't you?"

"No.
 
I don't think that at all, but part of me thinks that maybe I should—that maybe this... this... chemistry between us is clouding my judgment."
 
She sighed, shaking her head in frustration.
 
"Hell, I don't know what to think.
 
I only know that you're a stranger.
 
As much as it feels like I've known you forever, you're a stranger to me, Michael.
 
I don't even know your last name."

He swallowed hard.
 
Why her lack of trust in him should cause him pain was beyond knowing.
 
That it did was beyond denying.

"I don't suppose I an blame you for being cautious.
 
You're right.
 
God, it seems to me that you know me better than anyone ever has, but that's just... that's just this."
 
As he said it, he trailed the backs of his knuckles over her cheek, and she closed her eyes, pushing closer to his touch

Then she opened them again and met his.
 
"Its' powerful, Michael.
 
Everything in me believes in you.
 
But I have to be sure."
 
She frowned.
 
"Isn't there some part of you that wonders if I might be guilty?
 
If your feelings aren't clouding your judgment?"

His eyes probed hers.
 
"No.
 
Not in the least.
 
But then again, I'm more used to trusting my senses then you are.
 
All of them tell me you're no killer.
 
And they've rarely steered me wrong."
 
He nodded slowly.
 
"We'll go back to your apartment.
 
I'll see you safely inside and leave my cell phone number with you.
 
Program it into your phone, so you can call me quickly if you need me.
 
You can stay there, and I'll go see what I can find out about Tommy's murder, and then I'll come back and fill you in."

She blinked, clearly uncertain.
 
"How do you think you can find anything out?"

He licked his lips, unsure how much to tell her.
 
"I was a cop, Mary.
 
For ten years, I was a cop."

"In New York?"

"In Chicago."

"Why did you quit?"

He hesitated.
 
"I was shot in the line of duty.
 
The injuries were... life altering."
 
He wasn't about to tell her that he'd been on the wrong end of a Capone-era tommy gun, or that he'd been pronounced dead in a hospital, only to wake up in its morgue forever changed.

He'd been offered a choice then—live or die.
 
He'd chosen to live.

"I sorry.
 
Is it still a painful memory for you?"

He shook his head.
 
"It's in the past."
 
Further I the past than she could ever imagine.
 
"But I do know something about police work.
 
I know where to look for the answers we need, and how to get them without anyone being the wiser."
 
He'd visited a great many police departments since his change.
 
There were always unsolved crimes—things he picked up on through his ability to read the thoughts of mortals, to move about almost silently.
 
There were always wrongs he could help right.
 
And he did.
 
Had for years.
 
Evidence would turn up where none had been before; missing weapons would be located; witnesses would come forward.
 
And the police never knew they'd had a helping hand—a cold, pale helping hand.
 
In a lot of ways, he was a better cop now than he'd ever been before.

She pursed her lips, then nodded.
 
"If you really think you can learn anything, then... then yes.
 
Let's do it.
 
Here, take my extra gate key so you can get back into my parking lot."
 
She turned away, walking toward her car.

"Gray," he said to her back.

She stopped and turned to face him again.
 
"What?"

"My name is Michael Gray."

"Oh."
 
She smiled at him, weakly, shakily.
 
"Thank you for that."

He nodded and then she got into her car and he got into his.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

After he left her, Michael went first to the building where Mary had dropped Tommy off the night before.
 
There was no security no key card required to get into the building, and it wasn't difficult to find the right apartment.
 
Even without the yellow police tape marking the door, he would have known.
 
He could still feel the lingering chill of death in the air.
 
And there was the stench.
 
Burning flesh did not emit a pleasant aroma.

The apartment door was locked.
 
The lock gave without much resistance to the pressure of his hand, and he went inside and closed the door behind him.
 
He didn't turn the lights on.
 
He didn't have to.

The place reeked of smoke and charred flesh, but the only sign of fire was in the bedroom.
 
A ring of black surrounded the bed—it had burned through the carpet and charred the floor underneath.
 
The headboard had been destroyed, leaving only a bit of charred wood at its base.
 
The wall behind it was blackened, as well, and the ceiling above.
 
The mattress was missing, probably in a crime lab by now.

Oddly, the rest of the room showed very little damage.
 
The firefighters must have arrived in time to contain the blaze, saving most of the apartment and the rest of the building.
 
And probably a lot of lives in the process.

The room had been ransacked.
 
Many items, he sensed, were missing.

He went to the bed, bracing himself for the onslaught of sensations the acts would bring before he placed his hand on the bed springs.

He expected horror.
 
Pain beyond endurance.
 
Heat and searing torment.
 
It wasn't what he got.
 
He got nothing at all other than an image of a body on fire.
 
No thoughts.
 
No sensations.
 
Tommy hadn't been conscious when he'd gone up in flames.

Frowning, he searched the apartment but found no clues, got no other images.
 
It wasn't until he left the building, on his way to the police department, that he felt that death energy again.
 
Not from within, but from the alley just below Tommy's window.

He followed his senses into the garbage-strewn alley.
 
Rats skittered from his approach.
 
And then he smelled it.

Blood.

Moving closer, he located the source, a dark spatter on the brick outer wall of the building next to Tommy's.
 
He pressed his hand to the stain and immediately felt a stunning blow to his forehead, right between the eyes, and what felt like an explosion at the back of his skull.
 
He smelled the hot sulphur scent of gunpowder, and though he didn't hear a shot his ears rang as if they had.