Jenna Ryan - A Voice in the Dark

“Give me time, Angel. I just dug up the Secretary of State connection. Any theories yet?”

Angel caught herself stroking the bottom of her cell phone and gave her fingers a speculative look.

“Only that I don’t think he was rolled by someone hungry for a fix. It’s true, any cash he had in his wallet was gone, but he was still wearing his platinum Tag Heuer watch, diamond tiepin and ring. Signet, not wedding. So either the killer was dumb as well as desperate, or the money was taken to make Foret’s death look like a really bad mugging.”

“How did you read the pennies on his eyes?”

“I’ve heard of similar cases.”

“Yeah?”

“Three times last year. Once in Boston, twice in New York. All of the murders had gangland connections. One gang, three killers.”

“This isn’t gang-related.”

It wouldn’t be, she thought. Far too simple. “And you know that because?”

“Victim doesn’t fit the profile.”

“Yes, well, Noah, it’s late and I’m tired, and it was really cold on that dock. I wasn’t thinking profile so much as get him to Joe and find the largest possible coffee.”

Another chuckle reached her. It almost reached into her. “Don’t turn diva on me, Angel. It wasn’t a criticism. You only came to Boston eighteen months ago. You can’t know what I do.”

Eighteen months, and some odd number of days. Angel started to lean a hip on the gurney, but spied the soiled under-sheet and opted for the elevator rail instead. “Waiting, Graydon. What exactly is it you know?”

“This isn’t an isolated murder.” Softly said, but a chill chased itself along her spine.

“Definitely do not like the sound of that. Are we talking serial killing?”

“I’d say so.”

Frustration crept in as the elevator ground to a halt. “How can you think that already? Have you been talking to Joe?”

“I don’t have to talk to Joe.”

“Then how…?”

“Look for a note.”

Again, the words were softly uttered; however, far from diminishing their impact, Noah’s tone gave them a punch that silenced Angel’s automatic protest.

“What kind of note?” she asked instead.

“A cryptic one. This killer’s looking to be understood, but only by the cleverest of the clever.”

She pictured him leaning forward in his chair, staring at the rain-smeared city lights outside his window.

“It’ll be small,” he continued. “Ordinary, like a tossed off scrap of paper. But it will be there. Look hard enough, and you’ll find it.”

Her resistance dissolved. “You’re the best criminal profiler in the business, Graydon. I trust you more than anyone I know. So I’ll look. And if there’s a note, I’ll find it. Bergman…”

“Doesn’t need to know about my involvement in this case.”

His statement surprised her into stopping halfway across the reception area. “Say that again? Don’t tell my boss why I’m doing what I’m doing?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve withheld, Angel. This one’s for me. Call it a personal favor.”

She responded to the admissions nurse’s wave with an absent smile. Something stirred deep inside, but she was fairly certain it had nothing to do with correct procedure and everything to do with an overwhelming resurgence of curiosity.

“Cat with a fish,” she echoed.

“Is that a yes?”

The obvious question clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it and looked out into the inky darkness. “You’re a fascinating man, Noah Graydon. I respect you, I like you, and God knows I owe you. So if more mystery’s what you want, I’m in. For your sake and Lionel Foret’s, it’s a yes.”

INSIDE HIS SPARSELY FURNISHED North Bay loft, Noah propped a bare foot on the windowsill and sipped hot coffee.

He didn’t bother to rouse himself when he heard the freight elevator clunk past the twelfth floor. He lived alone on thirteen, had since the only other person brave enough to overcome the eighteenth-century ghost story that was part and parcel of the building’s charm had taken a header out a rear window into a row of trashcans below.

The elevator gate rattled up. Ten seconds later, he heard a knuckle rap, and the door creaked open.

“It’s me, Noah. You feel like company?”

Noah rested his head on the chair back. “If I didn’t, would you go away?”

“Probably not.” Joe came in, collided with a metal stand next to the door and swore. “Friggin’ vampire lighting. Don’t you even want to see where you live?”

Noah smiled a little. “Did you come here to bitch about my furniture or to pass along useable information?”

“The second thing, but I swear, some day the first’s gonna cripple me. I smell coffee.”

“Machine’s still next to the fridge.”

“That would be the big black box at ten o’clock, right?”

Noah kept his eyes on the flickering city lights. “What’s the news, Joe?”

“I’ll—ouch—preface it by reminding you that I’m not supposed to be talking about this.”

“Pretend you’ve made the spiel. Why did Bergman give Foret to Angel and Liz?”

“Because they’re good not working for you?”

Noah merely turned his head to stare.

His friend released an audible breath. “Fine, he did it because of you. We might think all pen pushers are jackasses, but one or two of them actually have a brain. Liz and Angel are good, but official or not, you’re the prize Bergman’s after. Your boss wants you to back off this one—word’s already out on that—so Bergman had to go for your Achilles’ heel. Namely, Angel Carter.”

Noah turned back to his view. “So far, she can tell me as much or more than I can tell her.”

“What are you—ouch—okay, you moved that table, right?” Joe stopped to rub his shin. “What’s going on in your head about Foret’s death?”

“If you know what my boss is up to, you already know what’s going on.”

“You think it’s that guy again, don’t you, the one who did that string of murders that started seven years ago?”

“Eight.”

“We’ll call that an affirmative. Why?”

Noah propped his other foot up. “You did Foret’s autopsy. You tell me.”

“Team’s still running the results, but from the prelim, I’d say the wounds are fairly consistent. Still, a lot of murderers use knives. I think you’re reaching if your goal is to resurrect a serial killer who’s been off the map for half a decade.”

“We’ll see.”

Joe came to perch on the ledge. “Let’s get personal, shall we? How’re you doing these days? I cook a mean pot roast, and Liz’s angel food cakes are as divine as their name implies. Break down and have dinner with us. Liz is dying to meet you, and Jaynie turned four last Friday. We’ll have a second birthday party. You can give her money to buy new shoes.”

Noah smiled. “Your four-year-old likes shoes?”

“She takes after her adopted aunt. Angel loves shoes more than life. Liz only loves them more than paying bills.” Leaning forward, he tapped Noah’s knee. “We’ll eat by candlelight, tell the girls you’re a vampire with a soul, or whatever the deal was for that Buffy character. They’ll be mesmerized.”

Noah let his head fall back on the chair. “Thanks just the same.”

Joe emitted a sound of frustrated acceptance. “It isn’t healthy, you know, how you live—or don’t live as the case may be.”

“My life, my business, Dr. Thomas.”

“Don’t Dr. Thomas me. I’ll bet the house that you’ve seen Angel live and in person without her having a clue she’s been observed. The least you could do is return the favor.”

Okay, now that was too personal. Noah shot him a look that had Joe’s mouth ratcheting closed.