Sins of the Angels (22 page)

“Private conversation,” she stated.

For a moment she thought he would object, but then, his face going cold, or colder than it had already been, he retreated in silence toward the coffee room. Alex turned her attention back to the phone. Three minutes later, as unenlightened as she'd been when she began her mission, she slammed the receiver back into its cradle. Classified? They had to be fucking kidding. Since when was a homicide detective's entire service record classified?

She flopped back in her chair and leaned without thinking on her injury. Pain lanced through the abused limb and into her shoulder. She bolted upright again. “Goddamn son of a bitch!”

“Bad day?” Joly inquired, looking over from his desk.

“You have no idea,” she muttered, waiting for the pain to recede and the blood to return to her face.

“Jarvis!”

Alex jumped at the bellow and turned to see Staff Roberts in his office doorway, looking about as happy as she felt. She sighed and raised her hand, the one that wasn't throbbing in time to her heartbeat, to let him know she'd heard.

She pushed herself to her feet. “Apparently it's just going to keep getting better, too,” she muttered to Joly. She threaded her way through the maze of desks to Roberts's office and tapped on the door frame.

“You wanted to see me?”

Roberts motioned her in, continuing with the paperwork on his desk. “I assume there's a reason a call to staffing is more important than filling me in on what happened at the hospital?”

Sometimes she hated how fast news traveled in this place.

Alex straightened her shoulders, knowing there was no point to lying. “I wanted to follow up on Trent's file. I'd still like to find out about his background.”

“And I would like you to focus on the goddamn case.” Roberts slammed the pen he held onto the desk. “How many ways do I have to tell you to deal with this, Jarvis? Trent is your partner. Whatever his service record is has no bearing on the fact that he will
remain
your partner, and continuing to fight me on this will affect your
own
record. Now, are we finally straight on this matter?”

“Of course,” she said through her teeth.

“Good. Tell me about the hospital.”

She shrugged, immediately regretted doing so, and fished in her pocket for the painkillers Roberts had given her earlier. “There isn't much more than what I told you on the phone. James went ballistic, they sedated and restrained him, we left, he got loose and threw a chair through the window, and then he jumped after it.”

She popped the cap off the pill bottle and shook out two tablets into her palm. She considered the building headache and throbbing arm and added a third pill.

“You need to go home?”

“I'm fine.”

“Sure you are.” Roberts locked his hands behind his head. “So our only suspect offed himself. Why?”

To her mind, the better question was how. How had the heavily sedated James slipped his restraints in the first place, let alone found the strength to smash a chair through a plate-glass window and then follow in its wake?

“All I know is that the man took one look at Trent and lost it, Staff. Completely and totally. I've never seen anything like it—he was terrified.”

“Of what?”

She grimaced. “Trent?”

Roberts's brows formed a solid slash above his nose. “Damn it, Alex—”

“Just telling you what I think, Staff.”

Her supervisor raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Then why don't we try confining it to what you
know
instead? As in, do we have anything more on the murder weapon? What did Bartlett say about that, anyway? Is there any chance James's knife is a match to any of the vics?”

The very thought of James's knife had Alex protecting her injured arm with its partner. As for the idea that the weapon might have been used on others . . . She waited for the slight roll in her stomach to subside, then addressed Roberts's question. “I haven't heard yet, but I can—”

“Staff?” Joly leaned into the office beside her. “We have two more.”

“Two—” Roberts stared at Joly for a second, then stood up and reached for the jacket on the back of his chair. “When?”

“Sometime in the last twelve hours.”

Roberts paused with one arm thrust into a sleeve. “What, both of them?”

“Looks like. One out in Etobicoke, the other downtown.”

“Christ.” Roberts scowled and thought a minute, then sighed. “All right. You and Abrams head to Etobicoke and see what they have. Call me when you get there. I'll head out with Bastion and Timmins to the other one.”

“Um—Staff?” Alex held up her hand for Roberts's attention.

“You're done for today.” Roberts shrugged the rest of the way into his suit jacket.

“But—”

“I mean it, Alex. It's nearly five o'clock, you're injured, and you are done for the day. Write up your reports from the last couple of days and then go home. That's an order.”

“But—”

Her staff inspector brushed past her with a look fierce enough to make her clamp her lips together and swallow the rest of her objection. She and the others might occasionally joke about the Wrath of Roberts, but the phenomenon was real enough—and not something she cared to trigger. Her arm gave a twinge and she shifted its position. Besides, there was always a chance that Roberts might be right about leaving her behind this time.

She realized her staff inspector had stopped to speak to Trent and she moved toward them, unashamedly eavesdropping. Hearing her supervisor invite Trent to ride along, her heart gave a little leap.
Go,
she silently urged her partner.
Please go.

Trent looked at her. “I think it's better if I see Detective Jarvis home safely,” he said.

Alex bridled, forgetting she wasn't part of the conversation. “I don't need looking after.”

Again those words from last night. Alex felt the blood drain from her face and she swayed slightly, just enough to make Roberts raise a skeptical eyebrow and turn to Trent again.

“Good idea. When she's finished her paperwork, you can run her home.” Roberts gave her a tight, frosty smile. “And yes, Jarvis, that's another order.”

 

ALEX PASSED BY
the conference room on her way to get a coffee, paused in her step, and returned to the open doorway to confirm what her eyes told her she'd seen: Jacob Trent, settled into a chair, with files spread across the table in front of him. Appearing to do the kind of police work for which he'd expressed such disdain just yesterday.

She blinked. Then she leaned her good shoulder against the door frame. “You look busy,” she said, her voice guarded.

Trent's gaze barely brushed over her. He pulled a file toward him and flipped it open.

She tried again. “May I ask what you're doing?”

“Research.”

“Something in particular?”

“More of everything in general.” He scanned the file, made a note, and shoved the folder away. He selected another.

Alex watched him in silence for a few minutes. She should leave him alone, she thought. She didn't care in the least what he was up to; had decided, for the sake of her nerves, to limit any interaction with the man to the bare minimum. So she should just go and get her cup of coffee, and then continue with her own paperwork instead of contemplating another attempt at conversation. But she remained where she was until Trent set the second file aside and curiosity overcame her better sense.

Pushing upright, she wandered into the room to stand beside him. He went still at her approach, and for a moment that heightened awareness moved again between them, making her suddenly aware of the heat rising from him, the softness of his hair near her elbow, the shift of his body so near her own. She swallowed and shuffled sideways, and then made herself look at the notebook in front of him.

With an effort, she focused on the words he'd written and saw he was listing everything they knew of their victims. She cleared her throat.

“What?” He flipped open the third folder.

“You could save yourself some trouble,” she said.

Trent looked up, his expression grim and unfriendly. Alex ignored it and pointed to the enormous dry-erase board hanging on the wall opposite, covered in notes on all the victims.

She strolled toward the door again. “We've already wasted our time on that.”

His voice stopped her in her tracks, cold and clipped. “Detective Jarvis.”

She hesitated, then half turned to him, her eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Yes?”

“I said forensics was a waste of time,” he said, his head bowed over the file on the table. “I've come to believe linking the victims together may be of some value, however.”

Alex chewed the inside of her bottom lip and studied his bent head.
Coffee,
she reminded herself.
You wanted coffee, not an argument.

She tucked her injured arm against her side, supporting it with her other hand. “Detective Trent, we have some of the best forensic people on the continent working this case,” she pointed out. “They haven't left so much as a grain of sand unturned. How in God's name can you call what they're doing a waste of time?”

“Have they found anything yet?” he asked, continuing with his notes. “Fingerprints, DNA?”

“Not yet, but they will.”

“No, they won't.”

She huffed. “The killer can't be this careful forever, damn it. Or this lucky. Sooner or later he'll screw up and leave something behind—a hair, an eyelash, skin under a fingernail—and it won't rain all over the scene and wash away the evidence. We'll find what we need, Trent. We always do.”

“The weather has nothing to do with it. You'll find nothing, Detective, because there is nothing to find.”

What had started as simple irritation flared into real annoyance and Alex felt her hackles rise another notch. “Oh, really. I don't suppose you'd like to tell me why not?”

“You already know.”

“Excuse me?”

Granite-hard eyes lifted to stare at her. “I said you already know why not. You just don't want to admit the possibility.”

The hairs lifted on the back of Alex's neck and, suddenly, she was back in the alley at the scene of the third murder, crouched beside the victim, holding the tarp away from the body. Seeing again the disregard for human life.

It was obscene,
she'd thought.
Depraved.

Evil,
a voice in the back of her mind whispered.

Alex lifted her chin. “Are you trying to spook me?”

One dark eyebrow rose. “No,” he answered. “I'm not.
Are
you spooked?”

A shiver crawled down Alex's spine. She caught back the
Go to hell
hovering on her lips and turned to leave.

“No,” she lied over her shoulder in parting. “I'm not.”

She stomped toward the coffee room. Why in God's name could she not learn to keep her distance from that man? Or at least keep her mouth shut? She sidestepped a cleaning cart and brushed past a woman emptying a garbage can.

What the hell was he hinting at, anyway? How was she supposed to know why they wouldn't find forensic evidence?

Alex shuddered. Screw coffee. What she really needed was a good stiff drink.

Or two.

Frustration rose in a tangle in Aramael's throat and he glared after Alex's retreating figure. Damn it to hell and back, this was
not
going to work. Not like this.

He'd been so hopeful that logic would be his salvation in the midst of this decidedly illogical existence in which he found himself. The idea had seemed sound when he'd thought of it in Martin James's hospital room, but after two hours of reviewing paperwork, all he'd managed to do was thoroughly confuse himself. He didn't have the first idea how to go about bringing order from the chaos of information in these files, and the board Alex had so kindly pointed out to him might as well have been written in the Principalities' tongue for all the sense he'd been able to make of it.

Yet Alex and her colleagues made it look so easy.

He paused in mid–mental curse. Alex. Alex knew what she was doing in this investigative morass. What if he—what if she—?

It seemed almost too simple. Too obvious. But if he could get Alex to cooperate, it might just give him the edge he needed. A way to figure out a pattern to Caim's movements or, failing that, at least a hint at the identity his brother had assumed.

If he could get Alex to cooperate.

He balled his hand around the pen he held. She would have questions. More questions. She always did. How much would she want to know? How much would he be able to tell?

He thought about Caim stalking the streets, already seeking a new victim. Thought about it, but felt no more than a faint awareness through the greater thrum of energy that had become Alex. This was it. This was all he had left of his hunting prowess when in her company. Somehow she had overshadowed a Power's instinct and dragged him down to an unprecedented level.

Cooperation with a mortal. A Naphil.

With Alex.

The pen in his hand snapped in two, sending a spatter of ink across the files.