Kate Carlisle - Homicide in Hardcover

I headed west on Brannan to Ninth Street and over to Hayes in order to skirt the Civic Center mess, then turned right on Franklin. From there it was a straight shot up to Pacific Heights and the Covington.

I parked in the adjacent lot and followed the tree-lined walkway to the library, pulling my jacket a little tighter around me as I walked. It was a glorious February morning, the air crystal clear and brisk. From here at the top of Pacific Heights, I could see the amazing span of the Golden Gate Bridge stretching across the whitecapped bay to meet the rolling green hills of Marin County on the far side.

Once inside, I went straight to Ian’s office, where his secretary told me he was already downstairs. I detoured through a small side gallery and down to the basement studio area. I was a little creeped out to see that despite the yellow crime scene tape still strewn across the entrance to Abraham’s workroom, the door itself was open.

I peeked around the doorsill to find Derek Stone, kneeling on the concrete floor, studying the blood spill.

I must’ve made a noise because he saw me and jumped up, then ducked under the yellow tape and hustled me down the hall.

“I won’t pass out,” I insisted, almost stumbling from the bum’s rush he gave me.

“So you were whimpering on general principle?”

“I never whimper,” I said with a sniff.

From two rooms down, Ian popped his head out. “You made it.” He approached and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close for a quick hug; then he walked me to the new workroom. “You’re working in here.”

“Okay,” I said, and hated that my voice trembled. Seeing that dark red blob brought back all the horrors of the night before.

The new room was identical to Abraham’s in every way-except for that pesky bloodstain on the concrete floor.

I eyed Derek Stone over Ian’s shoulder as he followed us into the room. He stared right back at me. Today he was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, black tailored trousers and a dark pine green cashmere jacket. Essentially, we were dressed alike, although his outfit probably cost several thousand dollars more than mine. Show-off. Not that I cared, but I guessed security paid more than your run-of-the-mill cop salary.

Ian turned to me. “I understand you two have already met.”

“I’ve had the distinct pleasure,” he said, his mouth twisting in a wry grin.

My stomach tingled and I could’ve smacked myself. Yes, okay, he was indeed gorgeous as honey-baked sin, but that didn’t mean I was the least bit interested in a man who considered me capable of killing someone in cold blood. It just wasn’t flattering, and my self-esteem was healthier than that. I hoped.

I wasn’t surprised to find myself attracted to Derek Stone since I clearly had no clue when it came to choosing appropriate men. Recently, my own family had forbidden me to act alone when it came to dating, simply because I’d been engaged three times without closing the deal. I don’t know what the big deal was. So I picked the wrong men. Who didn’t?

I avoided looking at him as I walked the perimeter of the room, testing the book press and opening cupboards and drawers to check out supplies. I fiddled with the light switches to find the best possible lighting.

The two men ignored me, talking quietly as they sat in the tall, comfortable chairs that lined one side of the high worktable. I moved to the opposite side, slipped off my jacket and pulled up a backless stool. That was when I noticed the Winslow Faust lying on a white cloth in the middle of the table.

First I pulled my camera out of my bag. Then I reached for the cloth, holding my breath as I tugged the whole thing closer to me.

Even with its slightly faded gilding, clouded gem-stones, tarnished clasps and cracked leather binding, the Winslow Faust was exquisite. Swirls of pale gold were embossed along the outer edges of the cover. In the center of the cover was an elaborately tooled, rather bold and angry eagle holding a shield, a globe and a sword, all deeply etched in gold. But there was something else. Dripping from the eagle’s left wing was blood, so thick and crimson, it almost looked real.

I touched it. It was real, all right. There was blood on the book. Abraham’s blood? Oh God.

I was going to be sick. I dropped the book and tried to push away from the table. The legs of the high stool stuck and tottered beneath me and I flew backward with nowhere to go but down.

Derek was on his feet and around the table before my head could hit the floor. My stool clattered to the floor as he swooped me up and clutched me securely in his arms.

I stared at him, unable to catch my breath.

He stared back. His mouth was too close to mine and my heart raced in my chest. To say I was embarrassed didn’t begin to describe it. Mortified worked better.

I panted for more breath, thinking this might be a great time for me to find that portal into another dimension. Yes, I was grateful for Derek’s speed and strength, but really, this wasn’t exactly the most professional position I’d ever found myself in.

On the other hand, he seemed to have absolutely no problem hoisting a grown woman into his arms-not that I weighed a ton or anything. He appeared perfectly at ease, as if he were holding a cup of tea and carrying on a lovely conversation with the Queen.

“Must I always be saving you from near disaster?” he murmured.

“No,” I whispered. “That won’t be necessary.” But all things considered-and despite the fact that he continued to stare to the point where I was certain my face was as hot and red as a radish-I’d rather have ended up in his arms than in a coma or a back brace from colliding with the concrete floor.

“Thank you,” I said in as dignified a tone as I could muster, what with my throat gone dry and all. “You can put me down.”

“Are you sure?” He grinned, showing off his straight white teeth and some adorable little crinkles around his cobalt blue eyes, not that I really noticed or anything.

“I’m sure.”

“You fall with alarming regularity.”

“I don’t,” I insisted. “But I’ve had a bad week.”

He scanned the length of me. “You look quite fine now.”

I frowned. “You need to put me down.”

“Of course.” He got me back on my feet and stepped away. “Good as new.”

Ian stepped around my British knight in shining Armani and grasped my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, thanks.” I eased away and self-consciously straightened my sweater.

“Are you sure?” Ian persisted. “What happened?”

Derek picked up the stool and placed it on the other side, then pulled one of the more comfortable high chairs into position for me. He met my gaze, patted the seat and said, “Sit.”

“Thank you.” I maneuvered my way back onto the chair and forced myself to focus on the book. The blood was still there.

Struggling to retrieve some authority, I glared from Ian to Derek and said, “There’s blood on this book cover.”

Ian cocked his head. “Beg your pardon?”

Derek’s mouth curved in a frown. “What blood?”

“On the eagle’s wing.” I held up the book and pointed. “Why didn’t the police take this into evidence?”

While Ian’s forehead creased in confusion, Derek went with inscrutability.

I sighed. “The police never saw it, did they? You never told them Abraham gave it to me, did you? Why?”

“Apparently, you didn’t find it necessary to reveal that fact, either,” he countered; then, without another word, he picked up my camera and snapped off several photos of the book cover. Putting the camera down, he pulled a white linen handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabbed at the blood, then scrubbed it. He put the book back on the table and folded the handkerchief. “There. I’ll take this to the police for analysis. In the meantime, you can get to work.”