Shattered Souls Page 2

  Henry had been her first partner when she’d been a brand-new detective. He’d shown her the ropes, fussing and castigating her every time she’d missed a clue or screwed up something. He’d stayed on her ass until the day he’d handed in his badge and gun, satisfied she’d do just fine without his mentorship.

  She’d missed the ornery cuss but hadn’t had a lot of time to mope because Sam had been assigned as her new partner. And, well, suddenly the strict lines she’d drawn between her personal life and work had blurred. Deliciously.

  Now wasn’t the time to reflect. With fists on hips, Sam waited for her to tell him something he didn’t already know. Her gaze went back to the bed. To where everything had started.

  Henry had put up one hell of a fight. Her stomach lurched.

  “Looks like his attacker surprised him while he slept,” she said, eyeing the spray pattern on the headboard and wall above it. “He must have suffered a head wound. Don’t know how he didn’t go down, as much blood as there is here.” Again, she shivered, wondering how hard combing the room must have been for the team. Everyone had loved Henry.

  She glanced at the blood soaked into the brown carpet beside the bed. “He was still fighting. His head hit the comforter here.” She pointed at the rumpled bedding that had been pulled half off the bed. “Then the floor. These stripes,” she said, kneeling beside parallel lines of blood, “he must have been facedown, and the guy was dragging him.” She glanced behind her and stilled. The stripes, like fingertips digging at the carpet, streaked all the way to the dresser. “That’s…weird.”

  Cait glanced at Sam and noted the sharpening of his gaze. He had known she’d be struck by the oddness of the direction of the pattern. Whispers grew louder, and she rose.

  With slow steps she approached the dresser, noted small, round smudges on the front pieces of several of the scattered drawers. She squatted next to the dresser and peered upward, seeing for the first time the dried ovals just underneath the dresser top. He’d gripped the dresser top, but from what angle? Sweat popped out on her forehead. Her anxiety deepening, she took a deep breath. His bloody fingers had left streaks across the top. Scrapes left by fingernails, mixed with the blood, ended at the glass.

  Her glance caught on one more telltale clue, and her stomach tightened. This time, she was afraid she’d add vomit to the gore already present in the room. Cait raked a hand through her tangled hair. She needed to get out of here and let the techs and the detectives figure out what had happened, because she wasn’t ready to complete the trail.

  Goddamn, she really needed a drink.

  “Don’t stop now,” Sam said, an edge of warning in his softly spoken words.

  “I can’t do this,” she said, swallowing hard and dropping her gaze to her hands, which had begun to shake. The whispers that always rose when there was trouble of a spooky persuasion clamored in her head. So loud, so many. She couldn’t distinguish the words, but she understood their warning.

  “Henry was your partner,” Sam ground out, his gaze narrowed. “Your mentor. You can’t walk away from this one.”

  She snorted and shot him a glare. “You walked away from me.”

  “You left me a long time before I moved out.”

  Still avoiding his stare, Cait took a deep, quivering breath. She couldn’t think straight.

  “I need you on this one, Cait.”

  He used “the voice.” The one that made her putty in his hands to mold whichever way he wanted. The one that made her melt, but not because he’d turned on any heat. It was more the ragged, naked texture.

  Unless he felt he really needed her, he wouldn’t be asking for her help. She was the last person on the planet he’d ever want to ask. Begging her had to be costing him.

  She owed him. Big-time. He’d helped her leave the force with her dignity still intact. Pointed her toward Jason and his agency. In reality, he’d saved her life.

  Cait straightened her shoulders, then looked at the handprint on the mirror attached to the dresser’s top. “I don’t get it.” She glanced at the bare, white ceiling. “It’s almost like the killer used a pulley to haul him feetfirst off the floor and drag him up the dresser.”

  “Look again, Cait. I know you see it.”

  A shudder ran through her. Cait didn’t want to. She averted her face from the glass. From the one bloody outline she knew shouldn’t be where it was. Henry had fought an attacker in this room. He’d fought ferociously. The mussed bedclothes, the shattered furniture, the sprayed blood—all told the story.

  But the scene was as if the room had been turned upside down. The streaks led to the dresser, all the way up to the frame surrounding the old mirror.

  “The handprint can’t be his,” she whispered. “He was upside down. Lifted somehow. By the feet. But the fingers of the handprint point upward. Your techs, can they get a clear print?”

  “Look again, Cait,” Sam repeated.

  The sharper edge to his voice told her he’d keep her there until she faced it.

  Cait swallowed and forced her gaze to rest on the handprint. Dark brown, and it glistened. As though frozen.

  Again…weird. The print wasn’t raised but appeared flat. Frowning, she glanced back to see if it was OK for her to touch. Sam gave her a nod, and she leaned closer to touch the glass. Her finger slid along the smooth, clean surface.

  How—? She jerked back her hand and rubbed it on her hip.

  “You see why I needed you?”

  She didn’t bother looking back. “You don’t believe in this shit.”

  “I’m skeptical,” he said, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. “But explain how a bloody goddamn handprint is on the inside of the glass.”

  With a shake of her head, she backed away from the dresser. “I can’t. Waste of time bringing me here.”

  Sam caught her shoulders from behind. “All those times you asked me to trust your gut,” he whispered harshly beside her ear. “Prove there’s something to it. That you weren’t just losing it to the booze.”

  Her face began to crumple, and then she tightened her expression and shrugged out of his grasp. As far as Sam Pierce was concerned, she was all cried out. But she might feel satisfied to let him take a walk in her shoes. Just for a day or two. Long enough to find out who…or what…had taken Henry.

  She jerked her head toward the dresser, which was pulled four inches away from the wall. “Your guys move the dresser?”

  “Yeah, trying to see whether they could pull the silver off the back and get at that print.”

  A waste of energy. She shoved the dresser back in place, careful not to leave a print on the edges, and making sure to match up the dresser’s legs with the grooves in the carpet. Then, hoping she didn’t sway and fall on her ass, she stepped into the casing of an empty drawer and onto the dresser top.

  From her perch, she peered into the mirror at the reflected image of the hotel room. She stared at the handprint, noting up close the frosted texture. The blood had crystallized.

  Then she moved from side to side, peering into the mirror from different angles. Not until she stood on her toes and peered downward did she find what she’d hoped with all her heart she wouldn’t. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Henry’s body lay at the foot of the dresser, his bruised and bloody face a deathly gray blue.

  Chapter Three

  Blood pounded in her ears. She jerked back, looking to see whether anything else was in there with Henry, but the room appeared empty except for her and Sam’s reflections. Nothing else was different. The same bloody chaos, streak for splatter, was reflected in that other room captured in the mirror.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and reached out a hand. “Help me down.”

  Sam helped her climb off the dresser.

  “Take a look in the glass. At the floor of the room.” She kept her expression free of emotion. Her raw grief over the proof of Henry’s death felt cheapened by satisfaction. She waved a han
d toward the dresser. “You’ll have to climb up.”

  “I can see fine from here.”

  She shook her head. “Not getting scared on me, are you? You said you wanted proof. Couldn’t wave a wand and give it to you before, but it’s here now.”

  “Fine,” he gritted out and climbed onto the dresser. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and gripped the frame, then looked down into the glass.

  Cait stood to the side and knew the moment he’d spotted Henry. His eyes widened, and he cursed under his breath. On pure reflex, he shot a glance behind him to the floor. When his gaze lifted to hers, confusion darkened his blue eyes.

  “Yeah.” She swallowed hard. “Henry’s dead. But no one’s ever gonna find the body. I need to get out of here,” she said. Her whole body began at last to shake—whether from shock or the need of a stiff drink, she couldn’t tell.

  “No.” Sam jumped down to the floor and rubbed his hands together as though they were chilled. “I need your help with the investigation.”

  “What investigation?” she choked out. “A person isn’t responsible for what happened here.”

  “I have to know what happened and why.”

  “You seem to forget, although I know I’ve said it before—I don’t work for the department anymore.” Her hands fisted against her legs to lessen the trembling. “I’m not the go-to girl for your ‘full moon’ cases.”

  “Henry said I should trust your gut. Even when you were screwing up. He said you had a talent.” Sam’s jaw tightened. “The department will pay for your time.”

  Cait’s chest hurt, and she couldn’t draw a deep breath. She had to get out of here. “Henry was soft on me. I don’t have any special talent unless you count fucking up as something to be prized. I can’t help you. Besides, the lieutenant would never stand for it.”

  Cait swept past him, walking toward the door. She put her hand on the doorknob and then glanced back. “Fuck. Move the dresser back. Don’t let anyone touch the mirror when it reflects the room with Henry in it.”

  “Why’s that, Cait?” he asked, brows drawn into a frown.

  His exasperation came through loud and clear. “Do you want them seeing him? How you gonna explain it? Do you want them all spending months in counseling because their neat little worlds just exploded?” She pulled open the door and forged through the people waiting outside to reenter.

  Behind her, she heard Sam cussing, heard the lieutenant ordering the team to take the dresser back to the lab, but she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t breathe. She rode the elevator alone, kept her gaze straight ahead as she left the hotel and turned onto the street, determined to catch the next trolley to the nearest package store.

  Within five steps, a large hand grabbed her arm and yanked her around.

  Sam held fast when she tried to break free. “I need your help. You need to do this. Set it straight. For Henry. For me.”

  “I don’t owe you a damn thing,” she said, her voice tightening. How could he do this to her? He better than anyone knew she shouldn’t be anywhere near this case.

  “Don’t you owe me? And don’t you owe even more to Henry? He believed in you.”

  “Henry’s dead,” she said, forcing the words through a thickened throat. “Not a thing I can do to bring him back.”

  “You can find out what killed him, and you can make sure no one else gets hurt.”

  She forced her gaze to focus on the collar of his shirt where it bit into his thick neck. “If this is what I think it is,” she said, pitching her voice low, “in all likelihood, the killing ends here.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Gut.” She shrugged, impatient enough to lie to be away from there. “You know, what you wanted me here for.”

  “Not good enough.”

  She dragged her arm away from his grip and flexed it. She’d have bruises. Kind of sexy. Her breath caught for just a moment. “I don’t have the kind of expertise you need to track this thing.”

  “But you know who does.”

  An image formed in her mind—musty bookshelves, gaslit spaces…her gaze slid away. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe’s all I’ve got.” His gaze continued boring into her.

  Cait could feel her will crumbling. The thought of working with him again was tempting. Damn, she’d missed him. Even surly like he was now, he made her feel alive.

  Although she hated admitting it, she wanted to agree just to spend time with him. But wouldn’t she just be opening herself up to more heartache?

  “I can’t guarantee a thing. It’s been a long time since I ran in those circles, and I burned some bridges.”

  “Take me along,” he said quickly. “Give me an introduction.”

  So he could dump her and go it alone? She lifted her chin. “I would have to make contact on my own.”

  Sam shook his head. “Not happening. Soon as I let you loose, you’re gonna head to the nearest bar. I might track you down in a day or two, but the trail will be cold. We go now.”

  One last time she wavered, stalling as she sought more arguments that didn’t sound like lame excuses. But wouldn’t working this case to find the monster responsible for Henry’s murder finally prove to Sam she hadn’t lost it two years ago? Maybe she couldn’t turn back the clock on their relationship, but she could prove she wasn’t nuts.

  “If I help you…” she said slowly, “if we do this…it has to be my way. There will be some places you can’t follow me.”

  His jaw flexed. “Fine. Since you’re laying down rules, I have just one of my own. No booze. Not for the duration of our investigation.”

  No booze! Her eyes widened, and she inhaled a deep breath. She doubted she could make that promise.

  Sam’s expression turned hard as granite. “I need your word on it, Cait.”

  She kept her gaze averted, firming up her mouth because the quiet intensity of his voice was doing a number on her. She wanted more than anything to feel his arms wrap around her and hold her close. Wanted him to make this all go away. In his presence for less than an hour and already she ached for what they’d had before the voices bested her.

  “Cait. I mean it. Not a drop.”

  She nodded, because she didn’t trust her voice and was ashamed he had to extract a promise like that in the first place.

  “All right,” he said, sighing. “Where to first?”

  “I have a friend. She might get me a bead on the man we need to see.”

  Sam set the mike back in its bracket in the dashboard of his car and turned to Cait. After a fifteen-minute drive, they’d parked outside a palm reader’s shop. The neon sign flashing above the door said “Psychic Inside.” He grimaced but was careful not to let Cait see. She was still grumbling over the fact he had become her shadow.

  Cait didn’t work well with partners. Not when it came to the woo-woo shit anyway.

  She’d just have to tough the situation out because too much was riding on this for him, personally and professionally, to let her out of his sight. The moment he’d heard her voice when he’d played back the message on Henry’s voice mail his heart had stopped. More than just a detective’s need to follow a clue had him hotfooting it to her apartment to confront her. He’d been more frightened than he’d ever been in his life that she might have been caught up in the violence that occurred in that room.

  Not until he’d stood over her still form as she slept, breathed in the odor of stale booze, checked her clothing for blood, her knuckles and skin for signs of a struggle, did his anger surpass the fear that first gripped him. He hadn’t wanted her to be involved, not as a witness, victim, or a possible suspect, but he’d dragged her into the investigation anyway.

  Intellectually, the action made sense. Emotionally, he knew he was treading along a dangerous path. The attraction was still as strong as ever…at least on his side.

  After he’d reassured himself she was safe, he’d hovered while she slept, drinking in the familiar landscape, pausing to stare at the slig
ht curves of her breasts, the taut indentation of her narrow waist, and the fleshy swell of her lush hips—even though not touching just about killed him. Her legs, bared beneath the hem of her T-shirt, were still as trim, still as leanly muscled as he remembered. He could still feel their fierce grip, strong and feminine, around his waist.

  He’d been rough with her, but he’d handled her that way out of self-preservation.

  But shoving her under cold water had nearly done him in. Her nipples had spiked hard, the rust-colored areolae visible beneath the transparent material of her T-shirt. He’d been careful to keep his face free of expression. If she’d known how aroused he’d become, they might not have made it out the door.

  Sex had never been an issue between them. The slightest encouragement would have caused their surly passions to explode like an arsonist’s match to an accelerant.

  Ruthlessly, Sam pushed away the memories. He got out of the car, turning away to adjust himself because his groin felt heavy and throbbed uncomfortably. Then he circled the car to her door. She faced straight ahead, and he wondered if she’d nodded off during the drive. He knocked on the glass. “Come on.”

  Her chest lifted and her cheeks billowed as she blew out a deep breath. But she opened the door and stepped out onto the curb. “Sure you don’t want to wait outside?”

  Not willing to repeat himself, Sam gave her a steady stare. He’d play the asshole for now and hope the anger he displayed would sink deep and kill his arousal.

  She sighed and trudged to the door of the shop. A bell tinkled as she pushed it open and entered the dim interior.

  The smell of incense and candles permeated the air. The shop was deep but narrow. Shelves of New Age and voodoo kitsch lined the walls to the left. To the right stood a long counter with more shelves filled with apothecary bottles and jewelry—amulets, beaded bracelets, silver-wrapped crystals—sitting alongside displays of colorful voodoo dolls. Behind the counter was a doorway covered by strands of purple beads. A hand parted the beads, and a woman stepped through.