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“What the hell was Harry doing taking something like Jadrone? Frank’s family is human, not shifter.”
“Which means maybe our killer is some kind of shifter.” It would certainly explain why no one had noticed any strangers hanging about in the two previous murders—particularly if their killer was a multi-shifter. Multis weren’t the norm, but they weren’t exactly rare, either. That title went to shifter-changer hybrids.
In either case, Gabriel doubted that the killer would be taking the stuff himself. Jadrone was designed to ease the inevitable bone and muscle ailments that afflicted most shifters late in life, but it also had an unpleasant side effect: after several months of continual use, it blurred the ability to tell truth from fantasy. And their killer was too practical, too careful, to be on some Jadrone-inspired trip.
So why in hell was there Jadrone on the floor?
“The government took Jadrone off the market a year ago,” Stephan said. “It shouldn’t be too hard to track through records and find out who’s still taking it.”
Gabriel smiled grimly. It might not be too hard, but it was a task he had no intention of taking on. Sam could. It would keep her out of his way a while longer. Her anger and frustration had been all too evident in her smoke-shrouded blue eyes tonight. A few more pushes, a few more inane tasks, and she’d be asking for a transfer. All he had to do was convince Stephan it was for the best.
He rose and continued on into the bathroom. The stark whiteness was practically blinding—it had to be hell on the eyes when the sun was shining. A slight breeze stirred the hairs at the back of his neck. He glanced at the ceiling to make sure it wasn’t the air-conditioning and then turned. A hole had been cut into the thick glass wall.
“Monitor, record bathroom evidence.” As had been the case in the two previous murders, this hole was barely big enough to fit his fist through, and the edges were razor sharp, suggesting they’d been cut with a laser.
“Any thoughts on these holes?” Stephan asked from the doorway.
Gabriel shrugged, then stepped out of the CSM’s way. “Escape route, maybe?”
“If the killer’s using Jadrone, he can’t be a shapechanger.”
“No.” Jadrone was as deadly to shapechangers as it was helpful to shapeshifters. No one knew why—though Karl, a good friend of Gabriel’s and one of Australia’s top herbal scientists, thought it might have something to do with body chemistry. “Nothing’s making much sense in this case.”
“Well, it had better. If the killer keeps to his current schedule, you have precisely twelve hours before he strikes again.”
Twelve hours to find someone as elusive as a ghost. What could be simpler? “It would be a damn sight easier if we could find some sort of pattern. Other than being the same age and having red hair, the victims have nothing in common.”
“The answers are there. All you have to do is find them.” Stephan hesitated, then smiled grimly. “And I want Agent Ryan brought in on this one.”
Gabriel stared at his brother, wondering why he was so determined to see him and Sam teamed up. “No.”
“That’s a direct order, Stern.”
And it was one he had no intention of ever obeying—if only because Sam had red-gold hair, the same as the three victims. She might not be twenty-five, but he wasn’t about to risk her safety. Not with his track record.
“Are you listening, Stern?”
“I’m all ears, sir.”
Anger flared briefly in Stephan’s blue eyes. “Good. Report to me hourly.”
Stephan turned and walked away. Gabriel stared after him for a long moment, then glanced up at the CSM. “Position of autopsy team?”
“Entering the building now.”
“Good. Resume original monitoring position.” Gabriel followed the monitor back out to the living room. The answer was here somewhere. He could feel its presence, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He stared blankly at the corpse for a long moment and then turned.
Why had the killer vacuumed? And why just the section behind the sofa?
Frowning, he crouched down, studying the vacuum marks intently. Something had to have been spilled or dropped here. Why else vacuum? He shifted slightly and caught sight of something glittering deep in the white pile. He carefully plucked it out—a shard of glass. Then he ran his fingers through the carpet. A plate-sized section near his feet felt damp. He sniffed his fingers again. Ginger and lemon, mixed with something spicy he couldn’t define. Its touch burned across his skin.
He knew the scent. Heat, the latest rage in perfumes and one designed solely for female use. The manufacturers claimed it made the wearer irresistible to men—a claim that had proven so true that the government was considering putting the perfume on the illegal substances list. Oddly enough, when used by a male, Heat lived up to its name in an entirely different way, burning where it touched.
Harry had no wife, no girlfriend. No reason to buy Heat.
So the killer was female, not male.
