Krewe of Hunters 3 Sacred Evil (25 page)

They weren’t nightmares. They were sweet dreams. She was lying with Jude Crosby, and it was the most natural thing in the world. And they weren’t cramped up on a couch; they were in a bed.

Her sleep deepened, and it became restful.

Until she heard her cell phone ringing in the morning, so constantly that she thought it would vibrate right off the bedside table.

She fumbled, knocked it to the floor, found it, saw that the caller was Jude and answered quickly.

“They’ve found trace evidence in the limo that was assigned to Angus Avery,” he said. “Blood drops—the blood was Virginia Rockford’s.”

J
ude sat across from Angus Avery in a situation very different from the last time they had met. There was no pleasant New York bustle going on around them now. The chairs were rigid, cold and uncomfortable, the lights harsh.

He’d been read his rights, but he still appeared to be stunned. He hadn’t demanded to be left alone while he waited for his attorney to show up. Jude hoped that would take some time. It was rush hour, so it might. Angus Avery certainly had a high-powered attorney, who would get the man out on bail, unless an underpaid district attorney could convince the judge that he was a flight risk or too dangerous to be on the loose.

“This is insane!” Avery told him, shaking his head. “I’m a filmmaker, not a killer! I cooperated with your questions. You have…you have blood in a car that carried me to a dinner. I wasn’t in that car again. This is…what do you call it? It’s not proof—its circumstantial evidence, that’s what it is. You have people searching my apartment now, right? You won’t find anything. And why won’t you find anything? Because I didn’t do it!”

Jude knew that Sayer and the deputy chief were standing behind the mirror, monitoring the proceedings. Others were surely there as well.

The limo driver, Eric Len, was cooling his heels in another interrogation room. In a few minutes, Sayer would go speak with him. They’d give him a few minutes to sweat, and then tell him that Angus Avery had implicated him. Outright lies often tripped up an accomplice.

But Jude didn’t feel right. Avery was literally in tears, protesting his arrest.

“I didn’t do it!” he insisted.

“How did Virginia Rockford’s blood get in that limo?” Jude asked him. “Honestly, I’d like to help you out.” He actually meant the words. He’d suspected that the director might be involved, but now, something about the situation seemed far too easy. “There’s more, Mr. Avery, I’m afraid. There were hairs and epithelial cells that match your DNA found on the cloak that Captain Tyler was wearing when he was found after being kidnapped from a veterans’ home.”

“I didn’t give permission for my DNA to be taken!” Avery protested. “That’s my right—you didn’t have just cause. You can’t bring my DNA into court!”

“Mr. Avery, I took your DNA from a cup that you’d been drinking from at the diner where you met with me, and it was perfectly legal,” Jude told him. “If you want to come clean with me, I can help you. We can talk with the D.A., you know that. You know that people deal all the time.”

“I didn’t do it! I’m being framed,” he said desperately.

“It may be circumstantial evidence, but it’s just about overwhelming,” Jude told him. “And the city is in a panic over these murders. You’re in real trouble. You need us. You need our help.”

There was a tap on the door. A small, slim, middle-aged man in a crisp black Versace suit walked in. “My client has nothing else to say. We need privacy.” He produced a card and handed it to Jude. “Alton Morrison III, Detective. I’ll be representing Mr. Avery.”

Whitney was stunned. She had expected that if the police really caught the killer he’d confess. He’d be proud of his work, though sad he hadn’t accomplished the scenario it seemed he had planned. But, of course, human nature could be strange.

It was all over by the time she and Jackson arrived at the station. Eric Len had demanded an attorney immediately, but not before he had sworn that he’d returned the car to the garage just as he had said—and as records showed—and that he had gone home, alone. His wife couldn’t verify that information for him because she was back in China, visiting family. But he knew nothing.
Nothing
. He had never lied.

Angus Avery was taken to be arraigned that afternoon.

His high-powered attorney couldn’t get him released on bail, but he did manage to negotiate a house arrest, since the police evidence was circumstantial. He could return to his apartment with an ankle monitor. For his own safety, and the possible safety of the people of New York, he would also be closely monitored by the police—in other words a beat cop would be assigned to watch his comings and goings.

The police were appalled; the public was divided. Naturally, there was a press conference, and Avery denied passionately that he was guilty; he was being framed, and he suspected the NYPD who were desperate to
say
that they had solved a murder—they were arresting an innocent man, just as they had arrested and
jailed
an innocent man in the 1890s for the murder of the Ripper victim Carrie Brown. In court, he swore he would prove himself innocent.

Whitney saw little of Jude that day; he was busy with the lab, with paperwork, with discussions with the prosecutors, making sure that all the evidence was in order. The team stayed at the station long enough to contribute what they could, and then returned to Blair House to discuss the arrest. Jackson didn’t seem convinced that Angus Avery had committed the killings, but he didn’t say that it was impossible. The police had a weak case against the limo driver at best; there was no more reason or evidence that he should have smuggled the car out of the garage after its return than anyone else. Jackson determined that they would remain in the city at least another week, helping to tie up loose ends, if need be, and also because the film they continued to see on the bank of screens from the foundation abyss at the property next door was a phenomenon they all wanted to explore. They were cleared through the bureau, the NYPD and the city.

It seemed a restless day. Whitney sat with Angela at the bank of screens that afternoon, just watching the strange shadows. But they didn’t change, and they didn’t do anything. She went upstairs to lie down, surprised that she was so tired when she hadn’t really done anything.

In time, Angus Avery would certainly break. He would explain how he had gotten the car out of the garage, and how he had kidnapped Captain Tyler.

If he was indeed guilty.

Jude had told her briefly that the task force would remain together, gathering evidence on the chauffeur, Eric Len. So far, they really had nothing on him except that the car had been assigned to him, and he had been Avery’s driver.

She felt…dissatisfied. Somehow, she had thought that they’d have a more thorough completion of the case, that they’d understand what had happened, how and why.

As she lay on her bed, she heard the dog again. She sat up. He appeared by her side again, whining softly.

“I don’t even know your name!” she told him, stroking the soft ears. “Most people can’t see you. Not even my friends—though Jake can hear you—but I can. I even feel how soft your fur is, even though you’re a ghost dog.”

The dog whined softly again. He wagged his tail.

She started, hearing a rap at her door. Angela’s voice came to her quietly. “Whitney, Jude is here to see you.”

The fluttering of her heart alarmed her, and she smoothed down her shirt and her hair as if to soothe it. He’d probably come about something to do with the case.

She left her room and walked calmly down the stairs. Jude was there in the hallway, watching the screens with the others. “It has to be something in the air. Or a chemical that seeped into the floor that only shows on your high-resolution film,” Jude said.

The others didn’t answer him. He didn’t notice. He had seen her coming down.

“Is there anything new?” she asked him. He had looked perplexed at the station, as if he, too, had found the closure of the case to be anticlimactic.

He shook his head. And then his lips curled as he gave her the grin that never failed to start that electric sensation in her veins. “I came to see if you wanted to go to dinner with me without having to discuss blood and murder—or Jack the Ripper.”

Angela and Jackson looked at her and smiled like a pair of tolerant parents. Jake emitted a cough and lowered his head, grinning.

“I, uh, guess I should invite you all,” Jude said.

Jake stood up, laughing openly. “Right. That’s what you want. Go on, get out of here—and just give us a call if it gets too late. Shoo, children!”

She looked at Jude. He had no answer for the others; he was looking back at her with humor in his gray eyes, and more—the
whatever
that was between them that had made Jake laugh.

She met his gaze and smiled her acknowledgment. “I’ll just get my purse.”

She did so. Out in his car, he looked at her again. “Steak, sushi, Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Mexican…what would you like?”

“Privacy,” she said.

He didn’t reply. He put the car into gear and headed straight for Hell’s Kitchen. He’d barely closed the door to his apartment before she turned into his arms.

And he enveloped her in his.

His mouth was wonderful on hers, everything that she had expected and imagined. He could kiss with force and coercion, his mouth so firm but never hurtful. Just standing there, still fully clothed, she felt as if she shared a greater intimacy with a single kiss than she had known before in her life.

She felt his hands on her body, his fingers at the small buttons of her blouse. Their mouths were still locked when she touched his holstered gun and he touched hers, and they both laughed, and breathlessly removed the guns and their holsters.

They were still in the hallway, lips meeting and parting, some kisses long and deep, deliciously sloppy, hot and wet, and some brief as they parted to get a better hold on a button or a zipper. Whitney was half undressed when they heard a sound coming from the computer room.

“Oh, hell!” Jude murmured.

“Oh, hell!” Whitney agreed, trying to rearrange her blouse.

“No!” Jude protested. “The bedroom, go—I’ll send my father away!”

She grabbed their guns and holsters and scurried through the apartment, listening to his voice, and hearing the sound of the door shutting between the two apartments. She hesitated in the hall, and plunged into a room. There had only been a choice of two; she’d chosen correctly.

His room was lined with books, hardwood, art deco furnishings and a large bed that was covered with a black-and-crimson comforter. She set the holsters on the bedside table and turned, and as she did so, she found herself swept up and back in his arms, breathless, and heedless, her heart pounding and her body thrumming with expectation.

They plummeted to the bed together. Again he kissed her, trying to do away with the last of her buttons. “I’ve wanted this,” he said hoarsely, “since I first saw you.”

“And then, of course, we bonded—over the autopsy table,” she said, grimacing.

“Since I first saw you,” he repeated, pressing his lips to her throat.

“You’re such a liar. You thought I was an annoying college kid sent to darken your day.”

He paused, shrugged and grinned. “All right, well, an annoying college kid, but…” He paused, staring down into her eyes. “A golden one. I wanted to touch you. To reach out and touch you.”

“You were really beautiful, too,” she said softly, running her fingers softly over the hair on his forehead.

“Liar, you thought I was an annoying macho cop,” he said.

“Yes,” she said huskily. “But a damn good-looking one.”

He laughed. His fingers entwined with hers as he leaned against her again, and their kiss then was long and passionate, filled with sweet liquid hunger. When they broke apart, they struggled with one another’s clothing, as if neither could be freed from it quickly enough, as if the clothing burned, and only their naked flesh touching could ease the fire.

Not the case at all, Whitney thought, enlivened, awakened by the contact. She felt his heart, his breathing, the thrumming that seemed to pulse through his body as it did hers. He was everything she had imagined, long and hard and rock-muscled, so vibrant in his every move.
Macho man, indeed.
He seemed the leader in their urgent desire to be together, but she realized that it was only the hunger searing through him, and something of a desperate desire to please her, and make her want him as he wanted her. He need not try…

His mouth roamed her body and returned to her lips. She explored the length of his back, pressed her lips to his shoulders, delicately teased along his torso and slipped her fingers between them, cradling the rise of his erection. His body jerked and trembled, his lips found her flesh, her breasts, and he eased from her, moving down the length of her body. She trembled and undulated, and then writhed, feeling the pressure of his body on hers, and the seduction of his mouth and tongue. In seconds, a jolt ripped through her; she cried out, twisting, tugging him back into her arms, finding his mouth, and then his shoulders, feeling the jerk and ripple of his biceps and his abs, and the sheer sleek pleasure of his flesh.

In seconds they were entangled again, exploring and seeking one another’s bodies, and then they rolled, and suddenly he was within her, and it was as if her mind and heart and soul stopped as one, and then began to tremble in the damp heat that arose between them, so slick and hungry and urgent. He knew how to tease and seduce, and how to give, and then give way when they reached that point where satiation was a thirst that had to be quenched. She climaxed at a point of delirium, and clung to him, feeling the volatile shudder of his body in the violence of his own, and she felt his arms around her, the coolness of the sheets and the sheen of perspiration that covered them both. And they lay entwined, he within her still, she wishing that they could remain so forever. It was long moments before he lifted her chin, met her eyes and brushed her lips with the whisper of a kiss.

“Gold,” he told her. “Spun gold.”

She laughed. “Sheer macho power!”

“Hey!”

“In a good way. Champagne?” she asked.

“Beer?” he countered.

“That will do, but not yet,” she told him, finding his lips again and rolling onto his chest. Her turn. She kissed his chest, lowered her liquid caresses and made love to him, teasing him, telling him not to move, until he had to move, cradling her to him, rolling again and again, and making love side to side, kissing and not, moving languidly and then again with the speed of light. When they lay at last, spent again, she found herself suddenly wondering at her abandon and passion, and whispering, “Honestly, I don’t do this…often.”