Jenna Ryan - A Voice in the Dark

Angel found herself smiling—and surprisingly already standing on the kitchen threshold.

She located the overhead switch, but again, the light was virtually nonexistent. “You’re a wonderful distraction, Graydon. Okay, so I’m in the kitchen. I see three containers of Chinese food on a slopey surface that’s probably a counter. He’s got his used paint rollers wrapped in plastic, and the big goodies, hopefully appliances, draped with tarps. Lily’d love this place.”

“Lily?”

“Munster.” She ran her flashlight into the corners. “You own a TV, right?”

“Search, Angel.”

“I can do that and talk at the same time. Hang on, I’m putting you on speaker.” Depressing the button, she set the phone next to a disposable cup.

Wind whistled through the ill-fitting rear door. The bigger gusts shifted the floor dust and caused the rafters to moan.

Angel’s sharp eyes spied the end of a sleeping bag behind the rickety island. Pulling off her cap and gloves, she shook her hair loose. “Looks like Foret slept in the kitchen. I have to say, this area’s a lot better than the entry hall—except for the yellow walls. Too canary-like. If he was trying for French country, which he shouldn’t be in a pre-Revolution house, he missed by a mile.”

“French farmers don’t like canaries?”

She sighed in the direction of the counter. “Do you have even a drop of European blood in your veins?”

She heard the smile in his voice when he replied. “I happen to know you’re one hundred percent American, Angel. Three generations worth.”

“Ah, but go back to gen four, and we’re talking major global mix. One of my great-grandmothers came from Africa. The other was born in Fiji. My mother’s paternal grandfather was a Brit and the maternal one a potpourri—Italian, Romanian and Norwegian.”

“You missed the Argentine connection.”

She narrowed her eyes at the phone. “I swear to God, Graydon, if you can tell me what color bra I’m wearing, I’m cutting you off right now.”

“I’ll go with white and lacy.”

Lips twitching, she resumed her search. “Not going to react, because you can’t possibly know that. I got dressed in my closet this morning. No windows. The only one who saw me in there was my dog.”

“Lucky Moscow.”

“Pushing it, pal.”

“Angel, everyone in the department knows about your Alaskan husky.”

“Yeah, except I don’t recall ever seeing you in the department. I also don’t go around talking about my background. And my grandmother insists it’s a Mayan connection.” Wedging open a metal box, she sifted through the papers inside. “Other than Joe, how many spies do you have?”

“None, and that includes Joe. I pick up on details, I deduce. Sometimes I hit, just as often I miss. What are those papers you’re rustling?”

“Receipts mostly. Some doodles.” She grinned at one of the pages. “Hey, Foret really did like the Munsters. He drew Lily. Or—” she examined it more closely “—maybe it’s Morticia.”

“Who?”

“Buy a TV, okay?” Pushing the lid down, she continued along the counter. A tiny scraping sound reached her from the island. “Terrific.” She glanced over it. “The rats probably are as big as were-wolves.” She moved one of the food containers aside, then gave in, leaned her elbows on the counter and whispered, “It’s ivory.” She skimmed a finger across the buttons. “All lace, but not quite white.”

“It’s a tempting picture, Angel.”

The tone of his voice brought a surprising rush of heat. But then could you tease a mystery man and not expect to pay the price? She really needed to let go of this particular fantasy.

Fanning her face, she continued her search.

A napkin smeared with soy sauce sat behind the metal box. Red markings showed through from the other side. Curious, she used gloved fingers to smooth the wrinkles.

And there it was.

“Oh, hell.”

It was as far as she got. The scratching sound came again, followed by a low growl.

Movement exploded from behind the island. Angel saw bared teeth, gray arms and a pair of very large hands. A split second before she was tackled to the floor.

“ANGEL!”

Noah heard the growl as clearly as if it were a gunshot. When she didn’t respond, he shouted her name again, then swore and grabbed his jacket. He kept his phone activated, snatched up his keys and held them in his mouth while he dragged on his boots.

The sounds of a struggle were unmistakable. Still swearing, he ran for the door.

No shots had been fired, but then Foret’s killer didn’t use a gun. Knives were silent. And equally fatal.

The attacker’s breath whistled out. Noah knew Angel was good at hand-to-hand. She’d also be carrying a gun.

“Shoot him,” he said through his teeth.

But still no shots reached him.

“Angel!” he tried again.

“Big, heavy jerk…Ouch! Damn.”

Noah pounded through the alley exit and disarmed his truck. He almost tore the hinges off as he opened the door.

He was jamming the key into the ignition when he heard her vexed, “You’re really pissing me off, pal. Face down, stay there and don’t move. Don’t twitch. Don’t even breathe hard.” Louder, she called, “Liz!” Then to the phone, “I’m okay, Noah. It’s a vagrant.”

“Street person,” her assailant’s voice sneered.

All the air left Noah’s lungs. He let his forehead fall onto the steering wheel.

“You’re breathing hard,” Angel warned.

“What d’you expect, lady?” Her prisoner grunted. “You kicked me in the…”

“Angel?” Liz clattered in. “I heard a commotion…Ah. Who’s he?”

“Street person. Noah, are you there?”

Drill the bastard, he thought, but breathed it out and managed a level, “Yeah, I’m here. What the hell’s going on?” Not that he didn’t know, but until his heart returned to his chest, he wanted her to do the talking.

“Just a trespasser,” she answered lightly.

“Yeah, right, like you were invited in.”

“A dirty trespasser,” she continued, “who needs glasses desperately. I’ve been holding my ID in front of his nose for the past two minutes.”

“Could be fake.” The man snorted. “How do I know you’re not running a grow op here? All I wanted to do was sleep where it’s not wet.”

“Move your hand another inch toward my gun and you’ll be in a deeper sleep than you can imagine. Liz?”

“Call’s in. Cops are coming.”

Climbing out of his truck, Noah welcomed the sting of near-freezing rain on his face. “You sure you’re not hurt?”

“Sore cheekbone,” she told him. “He clipped me before I realized what was happening. Otherwise, I’m fine.”

He pictured a bruise under one of her stunning hazel eyes, let the rain wash over his face while his system rebalanced.

“Noah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got the note.”

“The what?” He had to drag his mind back, reorient.

“You told me to look for a note. Pretty sure I found it. It’s written on a diner-style paper napkin. It’s not the same as the napkins that came with the Chinese takeout, but it’s definitely diner-like.”

“Can you read it?”

“Clearly. Whoever did it printed the words in caps using one of those art supply stencils. You want cryptic? You got it. It says: SUFFERING IS THE BRIDGE TO UNDERSTANDING.”

“MAYBE HE SEES HIMSELF as a martyr,” she theorized later.

“Pseudo and sick, but with the genuine belief that he’s ridding the world of evil.”

Liz waited for the server to deposit their lunch orders. “I went through the records last night, Angel. Explain to me what’s evil about a soccer mom with three kids who belonged to the PTA and baked cookies for her husband’s geek squad computer repair coworkers.”