Mind of the Phoenix (14 page)

“But you’re not sure?” His curled mustache twitches with the movement of his speech, and his desperation smothers me.

“Well, no,” replies the detective. “But the murder doesn’t match the others. I’m certain that whoever killed that woman wasn’t under persuasion. The murder was impulsive and driven by lust, whereas the Phoenix is calculating and plans his murders. He chooses his victims carefully.”

“Any leads so far?” asks the Chief reluctantly.

“We interrogated the barkeeper and found out that both Constable Bradford and Constable Smith were at the pub last night,” says Keenan. “I’d like to ask them if they saw anything.”

“Yes, of course.” He opens his office door and his sonorous voice echoes through the police station in a quick demand for the two constables to enter the room.

The office suddenly seems smaller with the congestion of four men in the small space, and it is times like these that I wish I were physically stronger. I instinctively feel so vulnerable and fragile beneath the height of the detective, the bulky mass of the Chief, and the broad-shouldered muscles of the two constables. I could bring one to his knees, but not all four. Constable Bradford’s lips curve into a suggestive grin when his eyes fall on me, and I give him what I hope is an icy stare. Can he smell my fear?

“You two were at the Pig’s Tail last night?”

“Yes, Chief,” answers Constable Smith nervously. He’s frightened that the Chief will admonish him for drinking on a night when he has to work the next day. “I know we shouldn’t have been drinking, but–”

“It’s nothing to do with that,” interrupts the Chief, dismissing the subject. “The young woman who was murdered last night, Ginny Parker, was working at the Pig’s Tail. Do you two remember her?”

Constable Smith pales. “That was
her?
”

His reaction explains why he didn’t recognize her this morning and is understandable. Death changes a person. When his face turns a little green, I wonder if that’s sympathy I feel.

“Oh, God,” he continues, rubbing a hand along the stubble on his jaw. “I remember her because she served us some drinks and Anthony here kept flirting with her.”

Constable Bradford raises his hands in submission. “It was
harmless
flirting, Chief. She was a good sport about it, but nothing happened.”

“Did you see her leave with anyone?” probes the detective.

“No,” responds Constable Bradford. “We left before her shift was over.”

I sigh because I can sense he’s telling the truth. Another dead end. Though it may seem a bit suspicious that the constables were in the east district, it isn’t entirely unusual. The east district is known for housing pubs where the rich and middle class can get a cheap mug of ale and embarrass themselves without recognition. It’s also merely a step away from the pleasure house. I muse bitterly on how much of a
good sport
Ginny had actually been and how much was Anthony’s deluded ego. I pity any woman who finds herself beneath his overbearing body and grunts of exertion, because I know exactly what kind of
lover
he would be. I have no doubt that according to him a woman’s only pleasure is the satisfaction of having him inside her.

“Alright,” says the Chief, dismissing them.

Once they’re gone, the Chief turns his attention to the detective. “I don’t like this, Keenan. I hope we find the man responsible soon.”

“As do I, Chief.”

E
ver since Ginny Parker’s
death, I have been plagued with horrible thoughts that keep me up at night. When I close my eyes, I’m confronted with her blank gaze staring up at the sky, the consciousness that had once occupied the mind behind those eyes forever gone. You look into the eyes of the dead and
know
that you’re staring at nothingness. When compared to everything else, I’d have to say that death is my greatest fear, to be alive and conscious one minute and then…
nothing.

I shouldn’t care; I should just live my life the way I have for the past twenty years. I want to live; I want to survive. I didn’t take the Elite’s proposition because I wanted to catch the Phoenix and bring justice for his crimes. No, I involved myself in the investigation so that I could continue to
exist
. My plan was to find a way to escape and then run. And this time, I wouldn’t be caught; I wouldn’t be caged. I’d be
free
. Unfortunately, I find myself ensnared. I want to find the Phoenix, and I most definitely want to find Ginny Parker’s killer and make him pay.

Needless to say, I haven’t been sleeping well, so when I hear a knock pounding on my door for what seems to be the umpteenth time, I ignore it. Right now my priority is more sleep. Another knock sounds. Apparently, my intruder has a different idea of what is important, one I will quickly crush if he interferes with my sleep again.

“Moira, wake up,” demands the detective, and I groan and roll over. “Do I need to get the hotel clerk to open your door again?”

“The hotel clerk is busy, sir,” says another voice. Rick. “I tried to wake her, but she told me to… er… fuck off.”

“I have no doubt she did,” Keenan mutters irritably. He then says in a louder voice, “Moira, we have an appointment to speak with Mr. Hayes. Now,
wake up.
”

I bolt upright and growl, “Fine, I’m up!”

I hastily slip on my chemise and brush my hair, glad that I had taken the time last night to bathe. I then open the door and grab my corset. When no one enters the room, I look up at the detective and constable in irritation. Rick bashfully averts his eyes, but the detective isn’t as modest. He’s annoyed, which only grates on my nerves more.

“Well?” I say impatiently. “I can’t very well tie up my own corset, now can I?”

The detective turns to Rick as if in accusation. “I thought you were getting a hotel maid.”

Rick’s face reddens further. “I couldn’t find one, sir.” His gaze then flickers to me. “I’ll tie it up for her, sir.”

“Fine.”

Rick enters the room and hesitantly stands behind me. His nervousness placates my crankiness as he gently tugs on the corset. He doesn’t tie it as tight as the hotel maid, but I don’t mind. I’ve gained a little weight since the day I was let out of my cell, and I’m proud of it. When he finishes, I plant a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“You’ll make a fine husband, Rick,” I state with a smile, and he blushes a glorious shade of red.

“I daresay you have low expectations if you think tying up a corset makes a good husband,” replies the detective dryly.

His tall frame is slanted against the doorframe and those green eyes regard me with blatant hostility beneath the rim of his bowler hat. He hasn’t shaved since the morning Ginny Parker’s body was found, and his face appears more haggard than usual, with deep shadows blemishing the skin beneath his eyes. Like me, he hasn’t been sleeping well, which explains his irritableness, and, even though it’s not unusual for him to reply sarcastically, there’s an edge to his tone that alarms me. I’ve been more irascible lately as well, due to lack of sleep and the detective’s peevishness, so I automatically respond defensively.

“Well, when all your life men have been eager to rip off your corset, forgive me if I’m surprised that there’s some who will be nice enough to help you put it back on,” I respond caustically.

“Are you quite finished,
Moira
?”

“Yes,” I hiss as I hastily slip into my blouse and skirt. He hasn’t said my name like that in a while, and I immediately pout in response.

Rick has noticeably backed away from me and is glancing nervously from me to the detective as if he isn’t quite sure how to approach the situation. He’s accustomed by now to our little arguments, but it’s rare that we lash out at one another with this much hostility. Today will be one of those days. I storm past Keenan and then stomp down the stairs. He follows closely behind me, and I smell the cloying scent of cigarette smoke on him. The odour propels my anger forward into a violent stream of negative thoughts. We silently enter the motor vehicle and he begins to drive west toward twenty, where Mr. Hayes lives. I’m glaring at the scenery passing by, fuming as my mind stumbles over my inner turmoil.

You’re nothing to them,
whispers the voice in my head.
They’re all using you. You’re a tool; a means to an end. You’re worthless.

She’s right, yet I can’t help but feel betrayed. I’m seething by the time we reach Mr. Hayes’s private estate, and the voice inside my head has grown louder in response to my anger. She’s convinced me that the detective doesn’t care about my opinion and that he’s just using me to solve the case. Anything I might have seen in those green eyes was just wishful thinking on my part, and I feel like such a fool. I can’t trust anyone; I must escape. I hate everyone, but most of all I hate
her.
I’m drowning, and any moment now the darkness will consume me like a tidal wave. Normally, I’d be afraid, but all I can think of is the fire that has suddenly spread across my skin. I need to escape; I need to be
free
. I can’t…

“Can I ask you a question, Moira?” says the detective quietly, his voice penetrating the bleakness like a beacon. I glance at him and
hate
that those green eyes threaten to swallow me whole just like the darkness. “Has…” he pauses and glances at me uncertainly. “Has Mr. Hayes ever been a client of yours?”

“Why do you ask, detective?” My tone is beyond being acerbic.

“Well, you two were rather friendly toward one another when you last met–”

“Oh, so you just automatically assumed I’ve slept with him?”

“No,” he replies carefully, his brows narrowing. “I suppose I just wanted to be prepared if he behaves like Mr. Anderson did or–”

“Well, I haven’t,” I interrupt, and then climb out of the motor vehicle.

He’s instantly walking beside me and his own anger threatens to overwhelm me, which only irritates me further. He has no right to ask about my past or to be angry with me. I glare at him, unable to stop the hideous thoughts from pervading my mind. She tells me that he’s just like everyone else, whispering of his intention to assert his dominance over me and use me just like every man before him did.

“I suppose you’re wondering if Jonathan Hayes was one of my clients as well,” I say accusingly, and those green eyes glance at me sideways. “Do you ask because the fact that they fucked me interferes with your investigation? Or–”

“
Moira
–”

“Does the fact that so many men have used me turn you on, detective, or does it disgust you?” I blurt. “Perhaps–”

My words break off in an exhale as he grabs my shoulders and forces me to stare at him.

“
Stop,
Moira,” he pleads as he shakes me once, and I brace my hands against his chest. His eyes blaze with a fury I’m now familiar with, and his thumbs dig into my shoulders. “
Just stop
.”

His ferocity and agony have left me so stunned that I’m incapable of making a sound. I don’t dare move either, even though his grip is hurting me, because his plea has rendered me frozen. His face is a breath away from mine, and when he exhales slowly I smell the hint of alcohol mingling with the cold air. He then continues to surprise me by leaning his head forward as if he is about to whisper in my ear, and his cheek grazes my temple, the stubble scraping against my skin gently. But, instead of murmuring in my ear, he does the strangest thing. He
smells
me—or at least that is what I think he does when he inhales deeply and then slowly exhales into my hair.

I’m flabbergasted. Perhaps it is a hug, but even though I’m no expert on hugging—having only experienced it once or twice in my life—I’m fairly certain that it involves the other person’s arms
around
me, not their fingers digging into the flesh of my shoulders. Instead, this feels as if he is trying to hold me still in time so that he can compose himself, and that, at the slightest provocation, the temper he is barely containing will boil over. He suddenly loosens his grip, but doesn’t move away. A part of me relishes his proximity, while the other part is convinced that it is an attempt to deceive me.

“I had no right to ask,” he says softly, and I can feel his breath warm against my ear. “I’m sorry.”

His apology astonishes me—I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words directed at me before. My body betrays me as it relaxes into submission, and I reluctantly acquiesce. Whatever it is—even if it’s not a hug—I don’t care. I like it. I can’t recall a time when I’ve ever been this close to someone without them hurting me or trying to have sex with me, and, once you get past the awkwardness, it’s rather pleasing and comforting. Instead of responding to his apology with words, I lean forward and rest my forehead on his collarbone. I can still smell him, despite the taint of smoke and alcohol on his clothes, and I try to persuade myself that I hate it. Ugh, who am I fooling? Even
she
knows that I enjoy both his scent and his closeness. How late had he stayed up last night drinking?

“Moira–” he says softly, but breaks off quickly. I wish I could touch him to see what he had been about to say.

He swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple rise and then plummet back to its original position. His desire caresses me softly, not at all insistent, and I taste my own. I want to kiss him, but I’m scared he’ll reject me again—or worse, kiss me back. There were a couple of clients of mine back at the pleasure house whose company I actually hadn’t minded. They weren’t demanding or cruel, and, even though I had willingly kissed them back, I don’t recall ever
wanting
someone like I crave the detective. My inexplicable yearning for this man equally frightens and entices me. He has neither attempted to pull away nor make a move, and I realize that he, too, is struggling over his emotions. We’re both crippled between two formidable forces, wavering between the need to flee or submit.

So, before my mind fully succumbs, I say in what I hope is a breezy voice, “It’s quite alright, detective.” And then—as if my desire refuses to leave without something—I kiss him softly on his neck like I did the night I drank too much wine.

I hastily pull away, hoping that he doesn’t see my desire or how my cheeks have reddened in embarrassment, and walk to Mr. Hayes’s front door. The detective silently follows me. A butler answers the door, then ushers us into a parlour room. Mr. Hayes turns away from the fire to greet us, his amber eyes luminous in the glow of the fire, and smiles at us. It’s the smile a host gives an unwanted guest, yet his voice is congenial as before.

“Ah, I was beginning to wonder when you two would finally decide to come in,” he says, subtly informing us that he had witnessed our little scene outside his door. He then gestures to the chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

I automatically sit down beside the detective on the burgundy couch, the behaviour eliciting a glimmer of amusement in Mr. Hayes’s eyes, and his smile widens into a knowing grin as he sits across from us. He has assumed—just as Daniel did—that the detective and I are romantically involved, yet the assumption hasn’t doused his desire to get me in his bed.

“So, I suppose you won’t tell me what you wish to speak with Jonathan about,” says Mr. Hayes. “Am I right, detective?”

“Yes,” responds Keenan. “You are fully aware that the only people who are permitted to know the details of the case, other than me, are Mr. Harrison and the Chief of Police.”

Mr. Hayes raises a brow, his gaze flickering to my face. “And Moira, of course, or have you forgotten about her already?”

His comment is an attempt to rile the detective, and I’m tempted to inform him that his efforts are futile. I don’t need to look at the detective to know that the expression he wears is one of professionalism, and I wonder what sort of game Mr. Hayes is playing. I have no patience for games, and his amused smile is grating on my nerves.

“Hardly,” says Keenan. “Now–”

“Yes, yes,” interjects Mr. Hayes, rising. “I’ll bring Jonathan into the room.”

He winks at me before he leaves, and Jonathan enters the room a moment later. I immediately tense. I recognize him. Now, Daniel’s haughty personality isn’t so bad when compared to this man. Those blue eyes are as bottomless as I remember, and I instinctively shiver beneath their scrutiny. Jonathan was a cold and demanding client of mine, and would always probe my mind during sex as if he were searching for specific information. The whole experience ended up feeling like he had raped me body and mind. I don’t want to touch this man, and I most certainly don’t want to sift through that mind of his. He acknowledges us with a polite nod, but doesn’t say anything.

“Jonathan, I’d like to ask you some questions while Moira here reads your mind,” says the detective. “You are obligated under the laws of the Elite to agree.”

“Of course,” replies Jonathan in a calm voice. “Shall I sit on the couch beside–”

“That’s not necessary,” I quickly interject, not wanting him any closer. “I can read your mind from here.”

“Oh?” says the man, those blue eyes pulling me into a pool of darkness.

“Yes,” says Keenan. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to start with the first question.”

Jonathan nods, and I enter his mind. I want to speed through the interrogation so that I’m not required to spend any more time in his mind. He’s staring right at me, and once I’m through the initial barrier I’m met with ice-cold darkness. Instead of feeling in control, I feel as if he has trapped me in a cell in his mind made of ice, and is studying
me
intently. I desperately want out, but I also need the detective to ask his questions.