Jenna Ryan - A Voice in the Dark

The first e-mail was from Joe and directed her to a restricted FBI site, where she viewed Lionel Foret’s autopsy results.

The forensic team had discovered only microscopic fibers and Foret’s own skin cells under his fingernails. There’d been one bird feather and several strands of his own hair on his coat. Joe placed the time of death between midnight and 12:30 a.m. He said he’d have put it closer to twelve, except Foret had been wearing thermal underwear, so he’d needed to allow for a cocoon effect.

“Let me know who won the pool,” Joe typed. “Also, my wife told me to tell you that you must come for Thanksgiving dinner. Bring your mom and her trucker if they’re in town. Oh, and her Harley—that’s for me. FYI, Jaynie loves her new pink shoes. She told me to thank Auntie Angel again.

“Not wanting to mix business with pleasure, but I’m sorry for the delay on the Foret case. One of my techs mislaid the results. We found them in the file of a Balinese man who died three days ago from ptomaine poisoning. Don’t be a stranger…”

“As if I could.” Hitting a key, she moved on to Noah’s message. Her cell phone, doing a sudden dance across the desk, interrupted her.

“Tell me you didn’t just get home.”

Noah’s sexy drawl brought a swell of regret to Angel’s throat.

“Ten minutes ago.” Blanking the monitor, she crossed to the window seat, tucked herself into the lotus position and sipped. “Multiple messages, minimum lights. I made hot cocoa, but I probably should have made up an ice pack instead.” She probed her bruised cheek. “Gonna need major makeup tomorrow.”

“I don’t like that picture, Angel. How bruised are we talking?”

“It’s not a black eye, and the guy only got me because I tripped over a piece of pipe. Totally clumsy.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Did you hear? Bergman’s got Prune—uh, Bill Skater working the profile for the Penny Killer. Brian Pinkney’s really pissed off.”

“How can you tell?”

She laughed, considered briefly as she surveyed the glittering city skyline visible above the park side trees, then said, “Noah, have I ever told you that I play chess?”

“Pretty sure that’s a no.”

“Well, I do. Long Alaska nights, wicked blizzards, gen power running low, so no movies, no Dancing with the Stars… ”

Noah breathed out whatever he was feeling. Annoyance, frustration, resignation.

The sound sent a shimmer of guilt through her system. “Look, I’m tired, okay, and a little cranky. I wasn’t…”

“You don’t want to meet me, Angel.”

Humor trickled in. “An amazing profiler, and he reads minds, too. Not accurately, but what can you expect over a phone line? Come on, Noah, even Spock’s Vulcan mind meld required a certain amount of physical contact. And if you ask me who Spock is, I’ll be convinced you live in space instead of him.”

“Call it a shadow world.”

“You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

“The Internet has game partners…”

“Go there,” she warned, “and I’m hanging up. I also give up. Temporarily.” Turning slightly, she zeroed in on the area where she thought he lived. “Why the call?”

“Because you’re still on the clock at 10:00 p.m.”

“And you’re not?”

“I do my best work at night.”

Not chess, but a game of strategy nonetheless. His words flowed through her like warm brandy, seducing her far more than they probably should. Angel’s stomach muscles quivered and her skin felt unnaturally hot. But seduction was a thing she could match in her sleep.

Running a finger over her cell, she rested her back on the wall and let a note of teasing humor invade her voice. “It might come as a surprise to you, Noah, but night’s one of my best times, too. Or so I’ve been told.”

His hesitation spoke volumes. So did his tone when he said, “Below the belt, Angel, in more ways than one.”

Now that was the point. But did hearing it change anything?

Moscow barked. Twisting the mouthpiece upward, she asked him, “What is it?” She told Noah, “Dog’s excited.,”

The husky ran to the door, paused at the jamb. A second later, she heard a knock.

“That’ll be Pete.” Uncrossing her legs, she took another sip of cocoa, then stretched like a cat. “He says I’m a bad eater. Keeps trying to push tofu and veggie pizza on me.”

“Pete?”

Was there a frown attached to the question? Might be worth playing—to a point.

“Pete Peloni. He’s a guy I know. Tall. Very attractive. Really nice. He runs Peloni’s Place in Little Italy. It’s a sort of Italian restaurant with an upscale vibe, about ten blocks from the processing plant where Foret was killed. No segue intended. Liz and I go there sometimes for lunch. I guess she likes tofu…Yes, I’m coming, Moscow.” But she hesitated halfway to the door. “Why did you call, Noah?”

“I found a shoe site.”

“Excuse me?”

“Women’s shoes, thousands of them. It’s a French site. Designer boots and shoes at knock-off prices. Proof that one or two of my ancestors did in fact come from Europe.”

Delight mingled with astonishment. Delight won, hands down.

“I’ll go there tonight,” she promised, “and let you know tomorrow how big a hit my credit card takes.” With a motion to silence Moscow, she added a soft, “Thanks, Noah,” and ended the call. “Yes, I’m here,” she told the excited husky “Why the fuss?” Placing her palm on the frame, she looked through the viewer.

The corridor was empty.

“Took too long, huh? Well, it couldn’t have been Pete. He’d have left a bag of goodies big enough to feed everyone in the building.”

Which was only three other tenants, since the “building,” once a huge post-Revolution mansion, had been converted into four large condos. But Pete believed in stocked fridges as deeply as he believed in healthy eating.

Angel started to turn away. Then she frowned and did a double take through the viewer.

No box sat on the polished hallway floor—but something else did. After a quick second sweep, she snicked the bolt and opened the door.

It could have been a discarded grocery list lying there, but Angel’s instincts suggested otherwise. With Moscow sniffing the air, she used the back of her index finger to flick the paper over.

And seeing the words printed there, breathed a heartfelt, “Damn.”

NOAH HEARD THE WHIR of an approaching motor, followed by wheels rolling over damp pavement. From his crouch, and without looking back, he acknowledged the new arrival.

“Been a while, old friend.”

“Oh, just a few years. Like say—five?”

The belligerent thrust said it all. Noah half smiled at the ground. “Let me guess, you’re angry with Bergman.”

“Wouldn’t you be? He’s letting Pruneface Skater do the profile on this guy. So far all I’ve heard is that the killer’s a male—wow, that took a brain the size of Everest to figure—right-handed and he gets his victims from behind. A chimp could have told us that much, and a hell of a lot quicker than Pruneface did.”

“What do you want, Brian?”

The wheels ground closer. “Same as you. To nail the bastard who turned you into a ghost and me into a cripple.”

Noah reviewed the outline of Foret’s body that he’d drawn from memory. “You crippled yourself, and I withdrew by choice. We can’t blame a madman for everything.”

“No, we can’t do that. Some of the blame has to fall on other shoulders.”

And here it came, Noah thought.

The wheelchair gave a whiny rev. “The kid was green, Noah. You were supposed to be training him. That was the deal. Instead, you let him meet a murderer alone, with no backup and no idea what he was getting into.”