Time of Death (8 page)

You never knew who was watching.

Her yawn wasn’t entirely feigned. It had been a long shift, and a busy one as the crowds that patronized Bloodbath liked to stay thoroughly lubed. As she always did, she transferred her tips to her bag, zipped them into its inside pocket. After fitting the bag’s strap across her body, she put her jacket over it.

She hung the illuminated cards, given to all employees, around her neck so that one glowed between her breasts, the other between her shoulder blades.

With the gleaming gold pentagram with its boldly red double B’s in the center like a shield front and back, nobody would bother her on the way out of the club, on the nasty route through the tunnels. It was something else Dorian had made clear from the get-go, and he’d made an example of a souped-up chemi-head who’d tried a move on one of the waitresses the first week the club opened.

Rumor was the guy had ended up in pieces, and there hadn’t been enough blood left to so much as stain the ground.

It was probably bullshit. Probably. But it was enough to keep the path clear for anyone coming or going from Bloodbath who wore the sign.

Still, she checked her pocket, as she always did, for her ministunner and panic button.

An ounce of prevention was worth a lot of peace of mind.

She headed out, and as was usual at shift changes, she left the club with a group of other employees. Safety in numbers. There wasn’t much chatter, there rarely was, so she could huddle inside her own thoughts as they wound through the stink and the shadows, through the pounding music and wailing screams.

She’d thought she could handle it, the money was too good to pass up. With salary and tips, if she was frugal, she could move out of the city, plunk down a down payment on a nice little house.

A yard for her kid, a day job.

It seemed like the perfect plan, and she knew how to take care of herself. But it was too much, she had to face that now. The club, the tunnels, the boss himself. It was all too much, and she was going to have to go back to working street level, pulling doubles just to put a few extra aside every week. The house in Queens, the yard, the dog, would all just have to wait a few more years.

She’d walked out of Bloodbath for the last time.

She’d send in written notice, that’s what she’d do, Allesseria decided as she finally came out to the sidewalk. She’d use her son as an excuse. Dorian knew she had joint custody, but she could use the night work as too strenuous, too difficult.

Nothing he could do about it, she assured herself as she pulled off the glowing cards and stuffed them in her pocket. Nothing, that she could think of, that he’d want to do. At the salary he offered, he’d replace her in one crook of the finger.

Let somebody else mix pig’s blood—God, she
hoped
it was just pig’s blood—in gin to make Bloody Martinis, or handle dry ice to make a Graveyard. She was done.

The cops had been the last straw. She couldn’t take any more.

He’d made her lie for him, so there was a reason he needed the lie.

As Allesseria went underground again, this time to catch the subway home, she admitted she’d lied before he’d asked. Something had warned her she’d be better off playing dumb.

Never seen that face before.

Tiara Kent, who’d knocked back a half dozen Bloodies on her first visit to the club—and had spent a hell of a lot of time up in Dorian’s private office.

Okay, she hadn’t seen them leave together, but in fact, she hadn’t seen either of them leave when Tiara had come to the club. Which meant they might have slipped out through Dorian’s office.

And Allesseria hadn’t seen Dorian from sometime before midnight last shift. He hadn’t come down to work the floor as she’d told the cop he had. He hadn’t worked the floor, not once that she’d noticed, after Tiara Kent had gone up those stairs with him.

And she always noticed him because of the way her skin started to crawl.

He could’ve killed Tiara Kent. He could’ve done it.

With her arms protectively crossed over her torso, Allesseria sat on the train, struggling with what she should do, could do. A dozen times she told herself just walking away was enough. It wasn’t her responsibility, and she’d be smarter to just mind her own business. Quitting was enough. More than enough.

But when she got off at her stop, she thought of her son, how she tried to teach him to do the right thing, to stand up for what he knew was right. To be a good man one day.

So she pulled out the card the cop had left on the bar and her pocket ’link as she walked the dark street home.

Nerves prickled at the base of her spine, crawled up to the back of her throat. Even though she told herself it was foolish, she shot anxious glances over her shoulder. Nothing to worry about now,
nothing
. She was blocks from the club, and back on street level. As far as Dorian knew she’d backed him up, 100 percent.

She was nearly home. She was safe.

Still, she stayed in the streetlights where she could as she recited Eve’s office code. When she reached voice mail, she took a long breath.

“Lieutenant Dallas, this is Allesseria Carter, the bartender at Bloodbath.”

She paused, looking over her shoulder again as those nerves dug in like claws. Had she heard something? Footsteps, a rustle in the breeze?

But she saw nothing but light and shadow, the black, blank windows in the buildings.

Still, she increased her pace, felt her knees tremble as she hurried. “I need to talk to you, um, talk to you about Tiara Kent. If you could contact me as soon—”

He came out of nowhere, charging in like some dark and brutal wind. Shock had her sucking in air as she whirled around, as she stumbled back. She managed one choked-off scream as his hand closed over her throat, squeezing out even that single panicked gulp. The black eyes stared into hers when her ’link went flying. As if she weighed nothing at all, he lifted her off the ground.

“You,” he said in a quiet, almost pleasant tone, “made a very tragic mistake.”

She kicked, her legs dancing and dangling like a hanging man’s when he dragged her out of the circle of light from the street lamp. Red dots exploded in front of her eyes while her lungs screamed for air and her hand fumbled wildly for her panic button.

Her feet thudded on broken steps, and tears spurted out of her eyes. They bulged in horror when he smiled and she saw, impossibly, the flash of fangs.

In the dark, those gleaming points sank into her neck.

The minute she was dressed in the morning, Eve snagged a second
cup of coffee. “I’m going to check my home office machine, see if I got anything from the lab overnight.”

“Being a bit obsessive, aren’t you?” Roarke asked from where he sat, scanning the morning financials on the bedroom screen. “It’s barely seven.”

“You have your obsessions.” She nodded toward the maze of numbers. “I have mine.”

“Check it from your pocket ’link, then. Have something to eat while you’re about it.”

“How am I supposed to check my office messages with my pocket’link?”

Roarke only sighed, rose. He walked to her and held out a hand. “They’re all connected, my technology-challenged darling, hence the term
’link
.”

“Yeah, yeah, but then you have to remember all these codes and sequences, and it’s just easier to . . .”

He punched a command while she frowned at him. “Relay any new incomings on home unit Dallas,” he ordered.

“Huh. Okay, not as complicated as I thought. Can I check my unit at Central?”

He only smiled. “Relay any new incomings on office unit Dallas, Cop Central.”

“Damn it.” She grabbed the ’link out of Roarke’s hand. “I told them to contact me here as soon as they had—”

“Conscience got to her,” Eve decided, watching the face on-screen. “Walking home, it looks like. Looks spooked.”

There was a sound—a rush of wind? Eve saw a black-gloved hand, the blur of it whip in and close over Allesseria’s throat.

“Fuck! Goddamn it.” Eve’s own hand clamped on Roarke’s arm as the screen image blurred, the ’link struck the sidewalk, and the display went black.

“Play it back again,” she ordered Roarke as she yanked out her communicator. “Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I need a unit, closest possible unit at . . .” She flipped quickly through her memory to the address she’d pulled out of Allesseria’s data, then snapped it out. Repeated it. “Possible victim of assault is Carter, Allesseria. Female, Caucasian, thirty-four, black hair, medium build. I’m on my way.”

“I’ll go with you,” Roarke told her. “I’m closer than Peabody. You can contact her on the way. You know you won’t find her in her apartment,” he added as they rushed downstairs.

“Maybe she got away. Maybe he just wanted to scare her. Goddamn it, I picked her out for him. I set her up.”

“You did nothing of the kind.” He snatched up her jacket from the newel, tossed it to her as he snagged his own. “He chose her, the minute he asked her to lie for him, he chose her. I’ll drive.”

He’d get there faster, Eve knew, and it freed her to contact Peabody, then take the report from Dispatch. There was no response at Allesseria’s apartment.

“Get inside,” Eve snapped. “The victim’s life is in immediate jeopardy. I have probable cause. Get the fuck inside.”

She thumped her fist against her leg as she waited, waited, as Roarke maneuvered her police-issue through streams and clogs of morning traffic.

No, Eve thought, there wouldn’t be. He didn’t take her there. “Start an immediate search in a five-block radius. Repeating description. Subject is female, Caucasian, age thirty-four, black and brown, last seen wearing black pants, black shirt, red jacket.”

Eve ended the transmission, stared out the windshield. “I know it,” she said, though Roarke had said nothing. “I know it. He didn’t leave her alive.”

Eve scanned sidewalks, the buildings as they approached Allesseria’s
apartment. It was a tough, low end of the lower-middle-class neighborhood. Most self-respecting muggers would hunt for scores a few blocks away in any direction.

Pickings would be slim here, and the population willing to fight for what they carried in their pockets. Street level LCs would troll for johns elsewhere, too. All in all, the handful of blocks were safe simply because they were poor enough not to warrant much trouble.

But Allesseria Carter hadn’t been safe.

Eve’s gaze zeroed in on a subway exit. “Pull over, park wherever you can. She’d take the subway, wouldn’t she? Cheap and quick. If she did, this would’ve been her route home.”

She slammed out of the car the minute Roarke stopped, then pulled out her ’link to replay the message. Looked for landmarks. “It’s dark, and it’s mostly her face, but . . .” She held up her own ’link as if relaying a message, then looked over her left shoulder. “See here, could be that building in the background.”

She kept walking, studying the screen, the street. “Here, he took her right about here. Somebody would’ve picked up her ’link by now, or he did, but it was right about here he attacked.”

She scanned again, focused on a narrow building sagging between a Thai market and a boarded-up storefront. It was plastered with graffiti, and what looked like an old, torn Condemned sign.

Eve took out her communicator, requested backup at the location. Then drawing her weapon, she started toward the door. “You carrying anything besides half the wealth of the world in your pocket?”

“Burglary tools, though this won’t require them.”

She nodded, reached down, and took her clutch piece out of its ankle holster. “You’re deputized, ace.” She sucked in a breath, kicked in the door.

She went in low and to the right while he took high and left in a routine they’d danced before. Sunlight dribbled through the broken windows, striking off shards of glass, filth, vermin droppings.

And blood.

Eve could smell it—not just the blood, but the death. That heavy human stench.

Roarke took out a penlight, shone it on the trail of smeared red.

He’d left her splayed on the floor, arms and legs spread out so her body formed a gruesome human X. Most of her clothes had been torn off, leaving only ragged remnants of black clinging to skin mottled with bruises.