Tempted in the Night

Copyright © 2007 by Robin T. Popp

Excerpt from
Lord of the Night
copyright © 2007 by Robin T. Popp

Warner Forever is an imprint of Warner Books, Inc.

First Printing: January 2007

To my friends
—

you
make my world a happier place.

A special thank you to:

Marlaine
Loftin
, for the endless hours she spent with me brainstorming the action scenes and plot twists that eventually became this story. Getting there without her would have been much harder and not nearly as much fun.

Fellow authors Donna Grant, Mary O'Connor, and Georgia Ward, for their daily support in the trenches, whether it was by chatting, brainstorming, reading chapters, or just letting me vent.

Adam Popp, whose love and support get me through each day. He really came through for me when times got tough.

Tandy
LaCour
, for being able to discuss, in analytical terms, exactly what makes a story great. I appreciate our discussions of story premise, plot development, and character arcs on the many stories we've both read, but especially as related to TEMPTED IN THE NIGHT. I know for a fact that this story is better as a result of our discussions.

Sgt. Clarence "Turk"
Marthet
of the Louisville Metropolitan Police Department, for sharing his technical expertise and opinions with me.
It has been a great pleasure getting to know him. Any errors the reader might find in this story pertaining to homicide/criminal investigations and judicial process are wholly my fault.

Cathy Grant, for e-mails that made me
smile
, enthusiasm for my stories, and for introducing me to Turk.

Patricia Reid, who provided me with Max
Caine's
name.
With luck, we'll be running into this villain again.

Corkey
Sandman, for always being my greatest fan.

All the wonderful people who have read and enjoyed my books—in the end, it's all about you.

"Tell me something,
Boehler
, just what the
fuck were
you thinking?" Assistant Chief Gamble's voice was loud enough to rattle the windows in his small office.

"I'm sorry, was that a rhetorical question?" Veteran homicide detective John
Boehler
remained unfazed as he faced his boss across the desk.

"What the fuck do you think?" Gamble bit out sharply.

Another rhetorical question
, John thought but this time said nothing. He was too tired to sit through much more of this ass-chewing, not that he had any hope of getting to bed soon.

"Why in the hell would you even approach Simon Brody after the trial, much less threaten him in front of every reporter in the greater D.C. metro area?"

"I didn't threaten him," John said with as little inflection as he could.

Gamble picked up the TV remote on his desk and aimed it at the small television sitting on a nearby book-case. Soon, the news footage outside the courthouse was rolling across the screen. John didn't bother to watch. He didn't want to see Simon Brody strolling down the steps of the courthouse with that smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face.

It was harder to ignore the little cocksucker voicing his seemingly heartfelt reaffirmation of innocence, especially when Gamble turned up the volume. As it had before, both Brody's tone and his words ignited a slow, white-hot burn of rage deep inside of
Boehler
. Today, justice had not been served. The jury may have found Brody innocent, but John knew the truth.

"Don't get too comfortable, Brody. You're going to hell—if I have to drag your sorry ass there myself." John found himself silently reciting the words as his televised voice echoed across the room.

Gamble shut off the television and the silence that followed was deafening, if brief. "Sounded like a threat to me, and the media's having a field day with it."

John didn't bother to respond. When he'd uttered his threat, the media had been the least of his concerns. Five long months of hard, by-the-book investigative work flushed down the proverbial toilet because someone in the department had managed to "lose" a critical piece of evidence. John had no doubt that Franklin Brody and his millions were somehow involved.

Daddy might have saved his spoiled son from death by lethal injection, but who was going to save the young women of the
Washington
,
D.C.
, area? Now that Simon Brody was free, it was just a matter of time before he killed again.

"I want to know what's bothering you,
Boehler
," the assistant chief continued in a surprisingly sympathetic tone. "You haven't been yourself lately. You used to be one of the best detectives I had. I never had to worry about you. Lately, though… I don't know." He studied John's face closely in a fair imitation of the department's psychiatrist trying to see inside his head. "Are you having problems at home?
With your wife?"

John wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the question. "I'm not married." He had been once, fifteen years ago, if one could call a drunken night, a quick trip to Vegas, and eleven months of sheer hell a marriage. John didn't.

"Then maybe you need to find someone; settle down; start a family."

Yeah, John thought, because it had worked so well the first time. Gamble's attempt to counsel him was pissing him off. "I'm fine. Just a little tired." He didn't want to continue this particular line of conversation, so he changed the subject. "Sir, I'd like permission to look into how that evidence against Brody disappeared."

"That's not your job."

"I realize that. However—"

Gamble waved him to silence. "Forget that. You've got bigger problems to deal with."

"Sir?"

"First, you practically accuse the late Miles Van Home of being involved with terrorists. Now, you've publicly threatened the son of
Washington
's
second
most influential man. Is it the rich you hate,
Boehler
, or are you just tired of being a cop? Because I assure you, you're well on your way to committing career suicide."

John felt himself grow very still. "Van Home wasn't a random target. The
Exsanguinators
killed him because he tried to double-cross them. I'd call that being 'involved.'"

Gamble heaved a frustrated sigh. "Well, his mother disagrees. Now Marcie Van Home has got the D.A. breathing down my neck to reopen the case. I have to bring in someone from Internal Affairs to take a second look."

John wasn't stupid. He read between the lines. Gamble was bringing in IA to investigate
him
as much as the circumstances of Miles Van Home's death. And if they got too close…

John wondered how much time he had to "clean up" his files and was about to make his excuse to leave when
Gamble
pressed the button on his intercom. "Gail? I want to know when
Dresden
gets here. He is? Good, send him in."

A moment later, the door to the office opened and a short, stocky man walked in wearing a pressed suit, polished shoes, and an attitude that said his shit didn't stink. John hated him instantly.

"John, meet Richard Dresden, with Internal Affairs. He'll be handling the investigation into the
Exsanguinator
cases. I expect you to show him the same respect you'd show me—and give him your full cooperation."

Yeah, John thought, he'd show
Dick
some respect. Count on it. He managed to keep his mouth shut and his face expressionless.

At his boss's dismissive gesture, he stood and headed for the door. He was seconds from freedom when the assistant chief dropped the last bomb on him. "Don't let me catch you anywhere near Simon Brody or anything having to do with him, got it? Right now, you've got two strikes against you. One more and you'll be so far out, not even God will be able to get you back in the game."

A couple of hours later, instead of being at home in bed relaxing, John was driving around town, scanning the dark streets for… he wasn't sure what, exactly. If anyone had asked, he would have told them he was looking for members of a fanatical group of serial killers—a group he had dubbed the
Exsanguinators
because of the way they drained their victims' bodies of blood.

Of course, he was more likely to find one of their victims than the actual killers. In over a year of searching, that's all he'd ever found.

His first exposure to the
Exsanguinators
had come when several Navy
SEALs
disappeared under violent and mysterious circumstances. Days later, one of them was found dead in an abandoned building. There had been no obvious wounds and yet, the body had been drained of blood. Later victims would be found also drained of blood, each having two puncture wounds in the neck that were to become the group's signature mark.

That case had been a first for John, and in his search for answers he had called in the dead
SEALs
' commanding officer, Admiral Charles Winslow. John had met the older man years earlier when the admiral had been a guest lecturer for one of John's college classes. They'd instantly struck up a friendship that had survived the years.

To his surprise, the admiral had claimed to be familiar with both the modus operandi and the group responsible, leading John to believe that the problem was something the government was handling. This wasn't the first time the police and the government had worked on the same case, so John started calling the admiral or one of the members of his security team whenever he found another victim, hoping the collaboration would help him solve the cases.

The admiral and his team, however, had not exactly been forthcoming with information, John reflected as he found a place to park his car. He'd been left to draw his own conclusions, which were as disturbing—and bizarre—as the killings themselves.

Then, a couple of months ago, the case had taken an interesting turn in a new direction as the victim demographics changed. Instead of killing average citizens, the
Exsanguinators
were targeting criminals; scum of the earth who had, through power, money, or the negligence of the legal system, managed to escape justice. In one sense, the
Exsanguinators
were now performing a community service. John wasn't so sure he wanted that to end.

Getting out of the car, John started walking. The park loomed before him like a graveyard, silent and eerie, the shadows of trees obstructing his view. A chill raced down his spine and he pulled his coat tighter to keep out the stiff February breeze and continued on, wondering if his purpose tonight would still make sense in the morning.

Last week's snowfall lay in dirty piles of slush along the edges of the street, and he had to step over several small puddles to avoid getting his shoes wet. When he reached the park, he stepped onto the paved path. His senses were
hyperextended
as he strained to pick up even the slightest sound, and though he heard nothing, he sensed he wasn't alone.

Walking as silently as he could, he continued on, eyeing the large grouping of bushes ahead to his right. He was less than twenty yards away when a figure suddenly appeared ahead of him.

Time stood still as John stopped to study the man whose features were too shadowed to see clearly. It wasn't unusual for there to be someone in the park at this late hour and the man could be anyone. He didn't have to be a killer. Yet, when he lifted his head, John noticed that his eyes glowed with an unnatural red light.

Before John could decide if what he saw was more than a trick of the moonlight, the sound of running feet caught his attention. He turned just as the lithe figure of a woman
came
racing out of the darkness, long black hair flapping wildly in the wind behind her. The exact details of her other features were lost in deference to the sword, which she wielded with apparent confidence and purpose.