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“We’d had a party, and most everyone had left. Him, Levi, and...” I closed my eyes, trying to remember the name of the woman. “Sloan,” I remembered. “Blake was an ass. Sloan tried to smooth it over. Or that was the role she played.”
“Good cop,” Gwen said.
I nodded.
“And after that?”
“At the Grove,” I said again. I had a feeling I’d be saying lots of things twice. But I was still numb to my anger. For now there was only misery and disgust. “How was he killed?”
“Decapitated,” Gwen said. And with a considering look at me, flipped open the folder and spread the photographs it contained on the table.
I drew one toward me with a fingertip, and studied death.
His body lay sprawled on a floor of gold-flecked stone, his arms and legs spread. As promised, his head had been removed and lay a few feet away, eyes open wide, as if shocked by the situation in which he’d found himself. Blood was everywhere, in great dark pools, in splatters across the floor and the stone wall. Some had been smeared, maybe by the killer, maybe by a crime scene investigator. There was a coldness to it—not just because of the gruesomeness. Blake had been murdered, dropped, and left there in the pool of his own blood. The killer had simply walked away.
I looked up, found both gazes on me. Watching. Considering. Evaluating my reaction. I’d seen death, had sent vampires into its bony hands, its wicked care. I didn’t look for opportunities to kill, and regretted the need for it. I pitied his death, the insult of leaving him sprawled on the floor like garbage. But I didn’t know him and found it hard to muster sympathy.
For me, for the city, for Carlie, I had plenty. My anger wasgrowing now, sparked by the waste of life and the real possibility the AAM was bringing more trouble than they’d revealed to me. That made it imperative I help find who’d killed him, and keep them from hurting anyone else.
I pulled the other photographs nearer, the same bloody visual but from different angles, and frowned down at them. Something was missing. There was no visible katana, but he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Casual clothing, so he may not have worn the scabbard anyway.
Something else.
I closed my eyes, thought of the night they’d come to the door in their matching suits, and last night in their matching fatigues. And the one feature they’d apparently been allowed to personalize.
I opened my eyes again. “His pendant is gone.”
Gwen’s eyes widened. “His what?”
I gestured to my neck. “He had a pendant necklace. Some kind of stone on a leather cord.”
“You noticed he was wearing jewelry?” she asked.
“It was unusual,” I said. “They all wear the same clothes—like uniforms. Suits the first night; combat gear the second. A few had on necklaces or pendants. They were noticeable against the sameness.”
“That’s good,” Theo said and earned a sharp look from Gwen, who’d no doubt wanted him to maintain at least the pretense of objectivity.
“We’ll look into it,” Gwen said noncommittally. “Do you notice anything else?”
“The killer used a sword,” I said. I knew what a katana could do.
“Based on the medical examiner’s preliminary opinion, yes. Long, single-sided blade. And wielded by someone with skill. One cut, and no indication there’d been any second thought, any hesitation. The cut would have shown it.”
Vampires liked bladed weapons, I thought. “Where was he killed?” I asked.
“Inside the Brass & Copper building.”
It was one of the city’s famous landmarks—a skyscraper of stone striped with brass and copper that stood on Michigan Avenue just south of the river. It had been built by an industrial magnate—Brass & Copper Amalgamated, natch—during the city’s Gilded Age.
“In the shade, I assume, so the sun wouldn’t disappear him.” I looked up at her. “Someone wanted him to be found.”
“You?”
“I didn’t kill him, and I don’t know why anyone would want him dead.”
“He accused you of breaking AAM rules,” Gwen said.
“The Bureau made the accusation; he’s one of many. And I say there’s an exception; the AAM disagrees.”
