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Moments later, her suspicions were confirmed. Two puncture wounds had pierced Gregor Pensky’s carotid artery and had been attributed to an animal bite. She had news for Bulgaria, and the standing medical examiner. But for now, she contacted her own.
“What’ve you got?” she demanded of Morris.
“Saliva and semen, and I had my top man walk them to the lab. Exsanguination was COD. She was beaten pre-and postmortem, he used his fists on her, and wore gloves. Her larynx was partially crushed by manual strangulation. Tox just came back. Traces of the same cocktail inside Kent, administered through the neck wounds.”
“He transferred the drug through the bite?”
“Yes. She didn’t consume any blood, or alcohol.”
“This one wasn’t a party. Thanks, Morris.” She sat back for a moment, organizing thoughts and strategy.
“Peabody,” she said as she got to her feet. “Baxter, Trueheart. Let’s move.” She strode to the doorway, flicked a bulb of garlic with her finger. “You can take some of this along if that does it for you. Me?” She tapped her sidearm. “I’ll stick with this.”
Eight
Baxter might like to joke, and bitch about damage to his slick wardrobe, but he was a solid cop. His uniformed aide, Trueheart, hadn’t shaken off all the green, but he was dependable as sunrise.
There wasn’t a cop on the job—or not a sane one—who would be thrilled to traverse underground, day or night. But there weren’t any who would back her up more reliably.
She took point, left Baxter to take the rear. Below the streets, time vanished. In the world, the day was sunny and heading toward warm. Here, it was as dark and dank as midnight in a winter graveyard. Still, at this hour most of those who inhabited the tunnels we
re huddled away in their holes and burrows.
Some of the clubs and arcades ran 24/7, and the harsh music still pumped, the ugly lights still glared. Those who came or stayed to do business were more interested in the pain or gain than confronting four armed cops.
A few threats and insults were hurled. One brave soul invited the girls to have a taste of the appendage he was proud enough of to whip out and dangle in their direction.
Eve paused long enough to glance down. “Only thing down here interested in a taste of that is the rats, but they generally like bigger meals.”
This comment caused hilarity among the flasher’s companions.
“Sir,” Peabody said, with feeling, “I really don’t think you should tease the animals.”
“The rats can handle it.”
Eve turned down the next tunnel as the insulted flasher shouted inventive suggestions about what Eve might do with his pride and joy.
“Gotta give him points for originality,” Baxter commented.
“And optimism,” Trueheart added, and made his partner hoot with laughter.
Despite herself, Eve tossed a grin over her shoulder. His young, handsome face might have been pale and just a little clammy, but Trueheart was game.
The shouts echoed away as they reached Bloodbath. It was locked down tight.
She used the number Dorian had given her. With the video blocked, he answered in a slurred and sleepy voice.
“Dallas, official police business. Open up.”
“Of course. One moment.”
It took a bit longer than one, but the locks clicked, the security lights blinked to green. And the barred doors slid slowly open.
Eve saw the extra minutes had given Dorian time to set the stage.
Inside the lights were a dim and smoky blue with pulsing red undertones. The screen behind the stage flickered on, filled with images in black and white of women being attacked or willingly baring their necks for fangs. The blood that ran down flesh was black as pitch.
Dressed in black, his shirt open to the waist, Dorian stood above the screen on one of the open balconies. He seemed to float there on a thin river of fog, as if he could, at any moment, simply lift his arms and rise into the air. His face was ghost pale, his eyes and hair black as ink.
