No One Left To Tell no-2 Read online

  The small space went pitch-black for only a second until the viewing window activated. Raven's eyes adjusted to the crimson glow cast into the room.

  "Speaking of Disney, our new partner must be Goofy," Tony whispered for her alone. "The man's gotta be twisted. What sort of guy orders his men to go through this kind of abuse and calls it training?" He shook his head. "That poor hooded bastard is like a lamb bein' led to slaughter."

  In awe, Raven's jaw dropped. Realizing what was about to happen, she spoke aloud, "What the hell is going on down there? Is he insane?"

  "Most probably." Fiona spoke in a hushed tone. The pale red glow cast an eerie shadow on her face. "But watch. This is remarkable."

  Equipped with night-vision headgear, the small army of five waged war against the hooded man. To Raven's utter astonishment, the guy going solo was the aggressor. Before any of the guards moved, one had been incapacitated by a spin kick to the gut. A quick jab followed, directed at the man's head. But the blow had been pulled up short to avoid injury. The guard doubled over. Gasping for air, he'd been taken out of play. The count was four to one. The fox eluded the hounds for now.

  In their dark uniforms, the four remaining men nearly blended into the blackness. And the hooded man with dark pants looked headless—a fierce torso suspended in the gloom. Radiating the crimson of night vision, his body reflected a strange aura.

  Being one to root for the underdog, Raven found herself pulling for the guy who should've been at a disadvantage. Edging closer to the window, she felt Tony doing the same.

  The hounds circled the fox, coming in for the kill. Raven tensed, holding her breath. One man raised an odd-looking rifle to his shoulder and fired a round at the prey, narrowly missing his chest. A streak of color dribbled down the wall where he'd been standing. Anticipating the shot, the fox had rolled to his right and ducked for cover behind sandbags. But just as quickly, he prowled again, going after the man who fired the shot. The very weapon used on the offense gave away the guard's position—a deadly game of Marco Polo. Raven reminded herself that the guy was blindfolded. How extraordinary!

  "Is this paintball?" she asked, keeping her eyes fixed below. "In the dark?"

  "Christian adapted a variation of the game, adding the hood and blindfold." Fiona's voice was monotone, barely a whisper. The war game captivated the woman.

  A loud groan erupted over the speaker. The fox took out another hound.

  "And where is Christian? Watching from somewhere while this poor schlub gets nailed?" Tony scoffed.

  "That poor schlub is Christian, Detective Rodriguez. Didn't I make that clear?" Raven heard the smile in the woman's voice. "He'd never expect this from his men. All he wants is for them to do their damnedest to take him out of the game."

  Silence. Her partner caught her eye with a puzzled look.

  "Anyone ever do that?" Tony's voice filled with admiration. He scooted forward to check out the action below.

  "No. Not to my knowledge."

  Mrs. Dunhill was proud of her head of security—a man who'd just used one of his guards as a shield for a paintball blast. With his forearm around the guard's throat, and a hand grappling the man's head, he could have easily broken his neck. But this was a training game and not about killing. The guard held up his hands in surrender. Delacorte had taken out three of the five hounds.

  Raven narrowed her eyes into the blackness. This was their new partner? So much for treating him like a rookie on a murder investigation. This man wouldn't be fetching coffee or allowing them to fill his days with busywork. Yet the prospect of working with him intrigued her.

  A marvel to watch in the dark, he felt his way without benefit of eyesight. The man reacted like a bat using sonar to navigate. His controlled and powerful movements were efficient, a predator on the prowl. Narrowly escaping one paintball round after another, Delacorte reacted on pure instinct.

  "I got a feeling about our new partner," she whispered to Tony. "I think we just invited the fox to our henhouse. And his name is Colonel Sanders."

  "I hear ya." Tony nodded. "Old-fashioned or extra crispy? Either way, we're fried."

  Mrs. Dunhill's voice broke the eerie calm of the room. "I hate to interrupt his sport, but I'm sure you have work to do, a murder to solve."

  The floor below grew quiet. On the hunt again, the fox searched for his next victim. Fiona Dunhill stepped forward, speaking into the intercom. Her voice echoed into the cavern. "Christian? We have guests. And I need to speak to you, please."

  Slowly, the men stood and removed their headgear, but only after Christian capitulated by raising his hands. Lights gradually brightened and the guards dispersed. The war games were over.

  After a furtive glance, she turned off the intercom to give Christian and her some privacy. "If you'll excuse me. I'll only be a moment." The older woman left the room and descended the stairs, looking unsettled for the first time today.

  "Something we said?" Tony chided.

  Yet Raven felt uneasy, strangely disappointed the match was at an end. Drawing closer to the viewing window, she nibbled at the inside of her lip, waiting. When Mrs. Dunhill approached the man left standing, he tugged at his black hood. Raven found herself eager to put a face to the name of Christian Delacorte.

  Barely winded, Christian pulled off the black hood, then yanked the underlying blindfold to hang around his neck. His dark hair tousled, he ran fingers through the waves to straighten it. With a questioning look, he asked, "What's up, Fiona? What's so important?" Concern softened his usually solemn expression.

  "Sorry to have interrupted you, Christian. But something has happened. I need your help." She watched his reaction.

  "Anything. Just ask." Tossing the hood aside, he reached for a black T-shirt lying across a sandbag barricade. Ready to pull it over his head, he stopped when she reached for his arm.

  "Don't be so quick to volunteer." She felt the warmth of his skin, slick with sweat. "I'll understand if you can't do as I ask. But I don't trust anyone else."

  "That sounds ominous," he replied. His rich voice echoed in the war room. "Guess you better fill me in. Come on. I'll follow you upstairs."

  "No. We can't go up just yet. I need to talk to you here, now."

  Without pushing, he waited for her to speak. Christian's penetrating stare caught her by surprise. His gaze acted like a truth detector. Even in childhood, his eyes best captured his guarded nature. It hadn't always been so, but tragedy changed a person. She knew that from experience.

  "Two homicide detectives are in the observation room. Mickey Blair got himself killed last night." Saying it aloud made her stomach twist. "His particular skills earned him business apart from his security work at Dunhill. And I'm afraid this work may have contributed to his death."

  Christian narrowed his eyes, the sternness back in his expression. "What are you leaving out?"

  At first, Fiona didn't know what to make of Mickey Blair's death. The man had seen the dark side of her nature and had kept her secret, true enough. But with him dead, there was no one left to tell. She might have felt a weight lifted off her shoulders, except for one thing. Someone else had pointed an accusing finger by stepping in the middle and killing Blair in the process. And that scared the hell out of her.

  Christian waited for her answer. Revealing everything to him might cost her his devotion, so she tempered her candor with a gnarled fraction of the truth.

  "In a past life, I did some things I'm not proud of. And Mickey was part of that life." Her throat clenched. A tear slid down her cheek. She turned her head, avoiding his stare.

  "Did you have anything to do with—" He stopped. As he stepped closer, she heard his whisper. "Just tell me what to do. I'll protect you." His hand gently squeezed her shoulder.

  His willingness to safeguard her interests, without fully understanding the truth, touched her deeply. It reassured her she'd chosen the right man to trust with her life. Turning, she looked him in the eye, speaking in a hushed tone.

&n
bsp; "No. I didn't have him killed. At least, not in the way you might imagine."

  "You're being so damned cryptic. How can I help if I don't understand."

  "I need you to work with the police on their investigation. They've already agreed to—" She never got the chance to finish before he shot back.

  "What? Why the hell would I—" Anger brought color to his cheeks. He pulled away from her, throwing his shirt to the floor. "You know how I feel about the damned police."

  "And I wouldn't ask you to do this if it weren't my last option, Christian." She hated seeing his pain revisited. Every muscle in his body tensed with her cry for help. "I don't trust anyone else. Please."

  "Damn it, Fiona!" He crossed his arms over his bare chest, his face tight with a grimace. After a long moment, he dropped his head and eased the tension in his muscles. "Damn it," he whispered. "What do you need me to do?"

  Raven spotted another security camera following her every move in the observation room. The whole estate was overrun with red blinking eyes of the high-tech variety. Nudging her head in the direction of the surveillance equipment, she informed her partner.

  "Looks like Big Brother is watching. They probably got cameras in the john. What do you think?"

  "God, I hope not. I gotta use the facilities before we leave. If they got cameras in there, then my big secret will be out. Every woman in the greater Chicago area will be lookin' for some lovin' from Don Juan Rodriguez." He smirked, raising an eyebrow.

  "Probably more like Speedy Gonzales. And it's amazing your ego fits in this room." She rolled her eyes, then turned to watch the drama unfolding in the war room. From this distance, she couldn't tell much about his looks, not having a clear view of his face. But it would appear Java boy didn't like his new assignment, gauging by his anger. This was just fine by her. She didn't need a new partner. "Would love to be a fly on the wall down there."

  "With your luck, you'd get swatted once the lights went out. The guy's deadly in the dark."

  "Story of my life, partner." She shrugged.

  Before Tony asked what she meant by that, her cell phone rang. Saved by the bell. She answered the call, "Mackenzie."

  "Detective Mackenzie?" a soft voice called her name amidst the static of a bad connection.

  "Father Antonio? Is that you?" Knitting her brow, she pressed a finger to her other ear. "I can barely hear you."

  "Yes, it's me. You said to call if I remembered anything." The priest raised his voice.

  Raven paced the floor trying to get better reception, but nothing helped. "Yeah, I did. Do you have something to add?"

  Leaning against the viewing window, she plugged her ear tighter. From the corner of her eye, she caught movement down below. Mrs. Dunhill and Christian Delacorte were headed upstairs, with Mr. Security slipping a T-shirt over his head. With her so close to the glass, she was pleased she couldn't be seen from their side of the two-way mirror. But soon, her privacy would be gone.

  "There was a man in the cemetery last night."

  "You saw someone?" Hunching her shoulders, she tried to find a spot that gave her the least amount of static. Had she heard the priest right? Tony stepped closer, nearer the viewing window.

  "Yes, well, sort of. But he didn't come to the chapel that night. He broke the pattern."

  "What are you saying, Father?"

  "I'm sorry, I'm not making any sense. Let me start over. I saw a man in the cemetery last night, just before I went to the chapel. Probably why I was late."

  "Did you recognize the man, Father Antonio?" She heard hope in her voice. But the sound of footsteps on the stairs, outside the room, made her heart beat faster. "What did you see?"

  "I didn't really see his face clearly, but I know who he is from researching his family's gravesite. I've got newspaper clippings, articles from when they died. I know who he is."

  A shadow fell over her shoulder, eclipsing the light from the war room chamber. Slowly, she turned, coming face-to-face with—

  Christian Delacorte stood on the stair landing outside the observation deck. His eyes lined directly with hers, as if he knew exactly where she stood on the other side of the two-way mirror. With only thin glass between them, his stare stole her breath like a thief.

  Most women would find him strikingly handsome with his dark green eyes, strong jawline, and full lips. Raw sensuality. His physical size surprised her. Up close, his broad chest, muscular arms, and narrow hips dominated her. With his skin still flush from exertion, it seemed to radiate the same heat to her face, warming her cheeks. On a cold night in Chicago, the man could replace her space heater, hands down.

  Yet a glacial hardness to his eyes shot chills down her spine—an electrifying sensation that closely resembled desire, in her book. The word "intimidating" came to mind. Dangerous. Yet it was more than that. His masculinity commanded her senses in every way. No doubt, this man could push all her buttons—even ones not in the instruction manual. But he wasn't a man to trifle with.

  Nearly dropping the phone, she cleared her throat and finished her call. "That's good, Father. We'll be right over." Fumbling with her phone to disconnect the call, she couldn't take her eyes from Delacorte. His glare never wavered.

  She whispered, "Can he see me, Tony? How the hell can he see me?"

  "'Cause he ain't human, that's why I think I seen this on Buffy the Vampire Slayer."

  Fiona Dunhill touched Christian on the arm in an apparent effort to stop him from playing his intimidation game. But before Cruella De Vil and Count Dracula joined her and Tony, Raven let her partner know what was going on.

  "We've got a stop to make before we head back to the station house, Tony. Our priest may be a witness after all."

  Fiona stepped into the observation room before him. His eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Christian squinted, searching the room for—

  "Detective Raven Mackenzie." A woman with dark hair stepped forward, extending her hand. Her dark eyes never flinched, even when he returned a glare. She spoke again, "And this is my partner, Detective Tony Rodriguez."

  With only a brief glance down to her hand, he ignored the gesture and walked by her, totally neglecting the other man. He winced at the pain of a burgeoning headache. Today would be bad. He pressed a finger to his temple, hiding his discomfort.

  "Sorry. I need to wash up." He knew that sounded lame, but he didn't give a damn.

  His sweat gave him a pathetic excuse not to be more civil. Normally, he wouldn't care what they thought, but Fiona might. It was the best he could do with the war still raging in his head. His war games took a toll every time he indulged in them. But they were a compulsion he couldn't ignore. They had been his salvation—and his curse.

  "Yeah, well—" The woman pointed a finger at him. "Nice meeting you, too."

  Fiona broke the tension in the room. "Christian agreed to work with you. As we discussed, he's to be part of your investigative team, with all privileges. That's the only way you'll get my full cooperation. Do we have an understanding? Or shall I call Chief Markham and have him settle this?"

  Christian turned back and eyed the female detective. He let his gaze take liberties. The rude behavior had been intended to intimidate the cop. But once he got started, the maneuver backfired. He liked what he saw. Liked it a lot.

  Her shapely legs and the hint of an athletic build under her suit only conjured up distracting images of the bare skin underneath. And her jacket did little to disguise her full breasts. When she caught him staring, the woman crossed her arms and returned the gesture. He cocked an eyebrow.

  Interesting . . . and gutsy.

  Her piercing eyes nailed him, strafing his body with greedy interest. And apparently, she had no intention of backing down. She refused to be intimidated. Yet another seductive quality.

  Her partner's voice interrupted their restrained skirmish.

  "No, no need for that, Mrs. Dunhill. I think we understand one another." Detective Rodriguez stepped forward, placing himself in front of Raven t
o break the growing tension. Directing his next question, the detective sent a clear message for him to back off. "I'd say our next step is to set up a game plan. If you're free later this afternoon, say around three, I'd like to have you come to Central Station on South State Street to catch up on what we have so far. Does that work for you, Chris?"

  With his deliberate and pointed use of the familiar nickname, Detective Rodriguez got the desired results. Slowly shifting his eyes, Christian refocused his attention toward the man. "The name's Delacorte. And if you'll give me some time to freshen up, I can come with you now."

  Abruptly, the female detective interceded, "No, that won't be necessary. And like you said earlier, you need to wash up. An excellent idea." Her dark eyes full of attitude, she tilted her head. "Take your time. We have an errand to run. Three will be soon enough."

  He ignored the obvious bum's rush she gave him, curious about the woman. But dark memories had already started to rise to the surface of his consciousness—a white noise that would escalate. He didn't have much time before the onslaught began.

  "Raven. That's an unusual name."

  "If you ask Tony here, he thinks it's because I come from a long line of Raven lunatics."

  "I can see the family resemblance." He hurled the first volley across her bow, but didn't stick around to see the indignation he knew would be in her eyes. "See you at three."

  Christian had to get out, unable to wait any longer. Leaving Fiona to deal with them, he stepped through the door into the second-floor hallway. His footsteps echoed in the corridor, then down the staircase. He headed for his quarters, a small cottage near the pool that had been closed for the season. All the while, his mind was adrift in the past. With war games fresh in his memory, the images blurred with his childhood terror, as they always did.

  Not like always, Delacorte! This time is worse.

  The flashes of memory came—wave after wave. Fiona's request must have instigated the intensity of his reaction. But he couldn't stop it. The violent images intruded on everything. Even in broad daylight, their assault clouded the familiar sight of his cottage.