Kate Carlisle - Homicide in Hardcover

So whoever it was, they didn’t know me. As strange as it sounded, that was a comforting thought.

I was exhausted and nearly half-asleep when I checked the locks again, then shuffled off to my bedroom. As I reached to pull back the bedspread, something on the pillow caught my eye and I jumped back.

On my pillow was a long-stemmed red rose. It looked fresh, with dew still clinging to its outer petals. An elegant note card was placed next to the rose. Without thinking, I picked up the card and read the one-word sentiment.

“Soon.”

I cried out in shock, threw the rose down and ran from the room. Shaking like crazy, I ran from room to room, checking the locks on every window and the front door. I ran up the narrow stairs that led to the rooftop garden to make sure that door was secure.

It wasn’t. The door had been jimmied open.

I started to panic. Was the killer still inside my loft? Was he hiding up on the roof? I wasn’t about to walk out there.

Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I ran down the stairs, found my cell phone and called the police.

The dispatcher said it would be about a half hour since the intruder wasn’t on-site. How the hell did she know?

And just because I’d checked the entire apartment and knew in my gut there was no one here but me, it didn’t mean I felt safe.

Soon .

What the hell did that mean? I thought of Gabriel and the last word he’d said to me earlier that day. No, I refused to believe he’d had anything to do with this. I’d known him for only an hour, but I knew in my heart he wasn’t warped enough to break into my place just to leave a rose on my pillow. Maybe to steal the Plutarch, but never-

“Oh, hell, the Plutarch!”

I grabbed my keys and ran to unlock the hall closet. In the old corset factory, this closet had housed a rope-and-pulley shelving system that moved supplies up and down between the floors. Like a dumbwaiter, I guess. Now the dumbwaiter function was disconnected and nobody would ever know about it unless they studied the building blueprints. But the metal floor panel still slid back to reveal a shallow space where I hid important papers and extra money.

And the Plutarch.

I let out the breath I’d been holding. It was still there. That didn’t rule out Gabriel as the intruder, of course, but I knew it wasn’t him.

I paced around, wondering whether Vinnie and Suzie were home. But they’d had enough of my traumas lately. I didn’t want to wear out our neighborly relationship. I’d never minded being alone until this moment.

I knew who I wanted to see. Summoning up a few more ounces of courage, I found the business card and made another phone call.

He answered on the first ring. “This better be good.”

“It’s Brooklyn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone broke into my house.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I stared at the phone, hearing nothing but a dial tone.

Having taken some action, I felt more relaxed. I looked down at my threadbare pink kitty jammies. Robin would be appalled. I needed to change into something normal.

As I rounded the bar toward my bedroom, I heard the floor creak behind me, then something hard and heavy smashed into my head. My thoughts evaporated as I crumpled to the floor.

“That’s it, baby. Come on, open your eyes.”

I drew in a breath and smelled the most delicious scent of leather and forest and springtime rain.

My eyes flickered open, then closed again.

“That’s it, you can do it,” he whispered, his voice warm and rich like whiskey sweetened with caramel-flavored hot chocolate.

I was either dead and gone to heaven or suffering serious brain damage, because I vaguely recalled waking up to that same voice in my ear once before.

I mentally surveyed my situation and surroundings. I wasn’t dead. That was a good thing. I was on my couch. The cushions felt like clouds under me. My head felt as if a train had collided with my skull. A cold cloth covered my forehead.

I opened my eyes. Derek held my hand and stroked my cheek. I was safe.

“Thirsty,” I managed to whisper.

“I’ll get you some water.”

I opened my eyes, saw him cross the living room to the kitchen, then return a moment later with a glass of water.

“I brought you a painkiller. I found the prescription bottle on top of your refrigerator.”

“Thank you.” I still had some Vicodin left over from the evil dentist I’d seen last month.

He carefully lifted my head and held the glass for me to drink. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” I said again, then focused beyond him. The coffee table was at a right angle to the couch and the overstuffed red chair was pulled into the space. He sat there, about two inches away from me. “Did you rearrange my furniture?”

“Yeah.”

“Odd.”

“I take liberties where I can.”

He helped me lie back down until I jolted from something icy on the pillow.

“It’s a bag of frozen peas,” he said. “Lie down.”

“I have peas?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I found them in your freezer behind several dozen packages of pizza and ice cream.”

“Don’t judge.”

“Lie back. The peas will help with the swelling.”

“Good news.” The thought of my head swelling up was not appealing. I carefully laid my head down on the frozen package. It was cold, but after a few seconds it began to numb the pain.

“Better?” he asked.

“Seems to help.” Trying not to move my head, I squirmed around to adjust the cushions and yank the hem of my pajama top down until I was more comfortable. Figures I was still wearing my provocative pink kitty jammies. “How’d you get in?”

“Good question,” he said, sitting back and filling the big red chair nicely. “Your door was wide-open.”

“I was afraid of that,” I whispered. “Did you call the police?”

“They’re already here.”

“Good. Maybe my neighbors saw someone.”

“I take it you saw no one.”

“No, of course not.”

“The door to your front coat closet was open.”

“I checked all the closets.” But that closet was stuffed with coats, so I supposed someone could’ve hidden themselves behind them.

I struggled to sit but gave up as soon as my head started to pound. “Did you find my baseball bat? They might get prints off it.”

“Still playing at crime-busters, I see.” But he said it mildly, without a hint of sarcasm.

“I guess,” I said wearily.

“I’d better make my report, then.”

“What report?”

He held up his hand. “First off, the blood you found on the book belonged to Abraham.”

“Oh.”

“The fingerprints found in Abraham’s studio were his.”

“No one else’s?”

“No. And the only prints found at Baldacchio’s house were his own.”

“Oh.” My shoulders relaxed. “I guess that’s something.” And the fact that he’d shared that information caused my heart to beat somewhat erratically. Or maybe it was the frozen peas.

“Indeed, it is.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and took hold of my hand. Warmth spread up my arm as he said, “Now, why didn’t you call me last night when your place was ransacked?”

I frowned, and the small move caused shards of pain to skitter across my skull. “Feels like so long ago.”

“It was less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“Right.” So much had happened since then. I’d almost been killed in a noodle house. I’d almost been killed in my own house. And what about the mysterious Gabriel? Good guy? Bad guy? Good Samaritan? Clever opportunist? Had he left me a red rose or was that the killer’s calling card? My head was spinning. “I should’ve called you.”