“I’m Detective Slade,” he said.
Racine’s gaze flickered with uncertainty as if she didn’t quite believe him. “Do…I know you from somewhere?” she asked almost reluctantly, almost fearfully.
“Not likely,” he said tonelessly. “How well did you know Megan Ramsey?”
“We were friends.” Racine’s green eyes filled with tears again. She dropped down onto the couch, her legs crumpling. Erin sat beside her, and Racine reached for her hand, clutching it in her own. The intimacy of the action startled Erin. She wanted to draw her hand back. She wasn’t used to closeness, to this easy familiarity. She wasn’t used to friendships of any kind, but Racine seemed oblivious to Erin’s discomfort.
Detective Slade remained standing, gazing down at them from behind those mysterious glasses. “When was the last time you saw her alive?”
“Last night. Megan had the lead role in a play at the Alucard Theater, and the director, Roman Gerard, had been spending a lot of extra time, you know, coaching her. But there wasn’t a rehearsal last night so she came home early, around nine, I think. We spoke for a few minutes, then she said she was going to change her clothes and go back out to meet a friend.”
“Do you know who?”
Racine shrugged. “She didn’t say, but I assumed it was someone from the play. There’s this nightclub down by the river where a lot of actresses and actors hang out. I don’t recall the name of it, but the outside is painted black and the windows are all boarded up, you know, as if it’s deserted or something.”
“I know the one you mean,” Slade said. “Did you ever go there with her?”
“A couple of times.” Racine hesitated. A strange darkness passed across her features, a mere flicker, but it left Erin with a vague feeling of unease, a nagging little worry that there were more things in this room left unspoken than were being revealed.
Racine’s gaze met Erin’s, then she glanced away. She took a deep, shuddering breath and said, “Lately, Megan seemed to go there quite a lot. At first she said it helped her to understand the character she was portraying in the play. Then later, I think…I think she became obsessed with that club and with things that were, you know…not quite normal….”
“What do you mean?” Erin asked quickly.
“The supernatural,” Racine said, avoiding Erin’s gaze. “People go to that club pretending to be…vampires.”
An eerie chill stole up Erin’s spine. “Are you saying that Megan went there because she believed in vampires?” A memory of the last conversation she’d had with her sister flashed through Erin’s mind. Megan had seemed fascinated by Demon Lover, Erin’s latest novel. She’d asked Erin countless questions about her research for the book, but at the time Erin had given it little thought. It wasn’t until later, when she’d begun to suspect her sister was in trouble, that Erin had thought back on their conversation. She could hear Megan’s voice now, as clearly as if she stood in the room with her.
“Do you believe in vampires, Erin?”
Erin’s own response had been automatic. “Of course not. Demon Lover came from my imagination, Megan. He doesn’t exist.”
“But what if he does?” Megan had insisted.
As the dialogue floated through her mind, Erin’s gaze moved upward, almost against her will, to Detective Slade. Even though she couldn’t see his eyes, she knew his gaze was on her, as well, and she felt an almost physical jolt.
His mouth had tightened into a grim line, giving his face an even harsher, more formidable appearance. Abruptly he reached past her and picked up his coat. His hand skimmed her arm, and a dangerous shiver sliced through Erin.
“Someone will be talking to you again later today,” he said. “We’ll need statements, but I won’t trouble you anymore tonight. In the meantime, I advise you both to exercise caution. Don’t go out alone after dark. Don’t open your door to strangers and don’t invite anyone inside. We’re dealing with a murderer here. A vicious monster who is still out there somewhere. Until he’s caught, no one is safe. And I mean no one.”
He’d addressed the warning to both of them, but Erin sensed that he was staring at her. How disconcerting, how very frustrating not be able to see his eyes. What was he thinking? Was this just another routine case to him? Would he walk out that door and forget all about Megan? Would he forget Erin? Somehow the notion left her feeling bereft. His presence dominated the room, and now that he was making preparations to leave, the apartment seemed empty already. Lonely. Forbidding. Frightening.
The nightmares were closing in again.
Erin followed him to the door as he shrugged into his coat. The collar was turned up, shading the lower part of his face. The dark glasses hid the rest. She might have been looking at a mask.
She reached for the knob just as he did. Briefly his fingers closed over hers. His hands were huge and strong-looking—not cool and smooth like Racine’s, but warm, vital, competent hands. Even the scars—those horrible scars—seemed to give him an air of permanence, of immortality. He had been burned, she thought. Badly. But he had managed to survive.
And now Erin had a sudden, chilling premonition that her life had been placed in those battered hands. The feeling was oddly comforting. And frightening.
As if reading her thoughts, he said in his dark, liquid voice, “I’ll be in touch.”
And somehow Erin knew he would be.
* * *
“Detective Slade? May I have a word with you?”
Slade slowed his steps as the old man appeared out of the shadows in the backyard. “Dr. Traymore, isn’t it?”
“At your service,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. There was something old-worldly about the way the man dressed, the way he talked. Slade had a strange feeling of foreboding as he stared at him. “I take it you’ve questioned Miss Ramsey?”
Slade nodded absently. Yes, he’d questioned her. He’d lingered far longer than he should have. The moment he’d set eyes on Erin Ramsey, Slade had known she was going to be trouble. She would want answers, and Slade suspected she wouldn’t rest until she had them. And what would she do when she found out he’d known her sister? Where would she take the information?
He’d been through an investigation once, years ago. He didn’t care to repeat the process. One way or another Erin Ramsey would have to be satisfied, before her suspicions could be aroused.
With an effort, Slade shrugged off his growing dread of the days to come, letting his gaze roam the backyard, automatically focusing on the crime scene. The CSU team had finished their preliminary work, and the body was en route to the morgue. The only thing to indicate the violence that had taken place earlier was the yellow ribbon that still cordoned off the area. By morning, it would most likely be gone, as well. He returned his gaze to Dr. Traymore. “I presume Detective Abrams has spoken with you already?”
“Oh, yes. He questioned me thoroughly. I’m to come down to your station later today to make an official statement. I’ll tell you everything, Detective Slade, no need to be concerned about that. But I’d like to ask you a question now, if I may.”
“What is it?”
“Who did this?” Traymore made a vague gesture with his hand toward the yard. “Or should I say ‘what’?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you, now would I?”
“I think you have clues,” the old man insisted. He took a pipe from his overcoat pocket and busied himself filling the bowl. “I think you know exactly what you are dealing with here.