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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-size 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.
SAM LEANED BACK IN HER chair and rubbed her forehead wearily. She’d had an almost constant headache for the last two days, and sitting for hours in front of a com-screen certainly didn’t help. Nor did the lack of sleep. In fact, that was probably the cause.
But if she slept, she dreamed. Though she couldn’t remember what those dreams were about, she always woke drenched in sweat, with her heart pounding at the walls of her chest as if trying to escape. And always, always, there was a name dying on her lips.
Joshua.
Why, she had no idea. She had no friends by that name. She’d never even met a Joshua, so why dream of him? And why were those dreams always so full of fear?
Sighing, she opened her eyes and stared blankly at the com-screen for several seconds. It was seven thirty in the morning. She should go home and get some rest. Shower, at the very least. But her apartment didn’t seem right anymore. It was too sterile, too neat. The builders and painters had restored the living area after the bombing three months ago, but no one could ever replace all the knickknacks and books she’d collected over the years. And the apartment just wasn’t the same without them.
Maybe she should sell it and start anew. Hell, she’d done it before. She’d left the orphanage with nothing more than the clothes on her back and a hand-drawn picture of her mother. At least she now had a job and a decent amount of credits to fall back on—and given that her apartment was in a posh part of town, it could fetch a small fortune in any sale. A fact Gabriel had noted more than once, and always rather suspiciously. But it wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried her damnedest to uncover who’d left her the apartment in his will. According to the solicitor involved, part of the terms of the gift were anonymity—and that was frustrating, especially when she could remember nothing at all about her parents or her early life.
She picked up her coffee, took a sip, then said, “Hey, Iz.”
The com-screen blinked to life. Dizzy Izzy, a hot pink fur-ball that was the current cartoon rage, stared at her while slowly swinging the end of a purple boa. “Yes, sweetie?”
“Can you do a quick search for Assistant Director Stern’s former partners? Minimal detail—who and where they are?” Izzy’s foot tapped for several seconds. “Results onscreen.”
Two names flashed up—Andrea Morris and Michael Rose. Both dead. And that, she thought grimly, was probably the reason for his current determination not to have another partner. Yet even though she could understand his fear, it made his behavior no less annoying.
“That other search you requested is completed,” Izzy added.
“Split screen, and show results.”
“Can do.”
The screen split in two. One side held the images of the four men she’d downloaded from the CSM, and on the other, their names and addresses, courtesy of the Motor Registration Board. Fortunately, they insisted motorists update their license photos every two years. As a State Police officer, there’d been countless forms to fill out before she could access the MRB’s information. The SIU, it seemed, was more powerful. She’d yet to find a system she couldn’t get into.
“Do a complete background on those four men, as well as our murder victim, Peter Lyle. Concentrate on current work details and banking activities.”
Izzy frowned, and the boa went into overdrive. “That’ll take time, sweetie.”
“I know. Proceed.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Only in this shoe box,” she muttered, then turned as the door opened. Gabriel walked in and dumped a file on her desk.
She eyed it wearily. “What’s that? More of the newly turned to be cataloged?”
