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“The day I let a pissant banker knock me on my ass and walk away has not come.” He veered off to circle around and left her scowling at him.
The security lights were blinding, but the opportunity for cover was endless. Echoes of running footsteps bounced off the floor and walls and ceiling. Trusting instinct, she moved left.
“Wineburg, you aren’t helping yourself. You’ve got assaulting an officer on you now. You come out without making me dig you out, I might cut you a break.”
Crouched, she swung toward the narrow opening between cars, scanned under, behind, moved on.
“Roarke, hold still a minute, goddamn it, so I can tag location.” The echoes softened a bit, allowing her to strain her ears and venture farther to the left at running speed. He was heading up, she decided, hoping to lose himself on the next level.
She darted up the first ramp, then whirled and braced, weapon aimed, when footsteps pounded behind her. “I should have known,” was all she said as Roarke passed her. She dug in and continued pursuit. “He’s heading up,” she snapped out. “He keeps going, he’ll corner himself. All the idiot has to do is stop, lay low. It would take a fucking platoon to find him in here.”
“He’s scared. When you’re scared, you run away.” He glanced at Eve, and felt ridiculously exhilarated as they hit the next ramp. “Or some do.”
Then the footsteps silenced. Eve threw out an arm to hold Roarke in place, held her breath as she strained to hear. “What is that?” she whispered. “What the hell is that sound?”
“Chanting.”
Her heart jumped. “Jesus Christ.” She broke into a fresh run just as one long, terrified scream ripped the air. It seemed to go on, endlessly, high and inhuman and horrible. Then it snapped off into silence. She dragged out her communicator without breaking stride. “Officer needs assistance. Officer needs assistance, parking garage, Forty-ninth and Second. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve in pursuit of…Goddamn it.”
“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, please say again.”
She didn’t bother to stare at the body spread in a growing pool of blood on the concrete floor. One glance at the terrified, wide eyes and the carved hilt of a knife plunged into the heart had been enough to determine death.
Wineburg had run the wrong way.
“I need backup, immediately. I’ve got a homicide. Perpetrator or perpetrators possibly still on premises. Dispatch all available units to this address for blockade and search. I need a field kit and my aide.”
“Received. Units en route. Dispatch out.”
“I’ve got to look,” she said to Roarke.
“Understood.”
“I don’t have my clutch piece or I’d give it to you. I need you to stay here, with the body.”
Roarke looked down at Wineburg and felt a stir of pity. “He’s not going anywhere.”
“I need you to stay here,” she repeated. “In case they come back this way. Don’t be a hero.”
He nodded. “You, either.”
She took one last glance at the body. “Fuck,” she said wearily. “I should have had a better grip on him.”
She moved off slowly, scanning cars and corners, but without much hope.
He’d watched her work before, studied and admired the efficient, concentrated field she created around the dead. Roarke wondered if she fully understood why she did it, or how she could, while examining a lifeless, violently dispatched body with such clear-cut objectivity, see through the pity that haunted her eyes.
He’d never asked her. He doubted he ever would.
He watched her order Peabody to record the scene from a different angle, saw her jerk her thumb at a uniform—obviously a rookie who wasn’t holding up well. Sending him off on an errand, Roarke imagined, so he could be sick in private.
Some of them never got used to the blood or the smell of bladder and bowels releasing with death.
The lights were viciously bright, merciless, really. The heart wound had bled profusely. She’d worn heels and a little black suit to the viewing. Of course, she would ruin both now. She was kneeling beside the body, tearing her stockings on the concrete and removing the murder weapon now that the scene had been duly recorded.
She sealed it, bagged it for evidence, but he’d gotten a good look at it. The handle was a deep brown, possibly horn of some sort. Yet there had been no mistaking its similarity to the one left at the last murder. An athame. The knife of ritual.
“Bad business.”
