Read Online A Rush of Wings by Adrian Phoenix - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Adrian Phoenix
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On the wall behind the bed, a message had been scrawled in blood, the uneven, slanting letters smeared across most of the wall.
Wake Up S
“Gina,” Dante whispered.
Heather looked at him sharply. “You knew her?”
Dante nodded, disbelief, shock, and something Heather couldn’t quite name shadowing his face. He fumbled for the sunglasses on top of his head, slipped them on.
Shifting her .38 to her left hand, Heather retrieved her cell phone from her purse and thumbed in the number for the Eighth District. “Agent Wallace,” she said into the phone. “There’s been a homicide at 666 St. Peter. Club Hell.”
Switching off the phone, Heather slid it back into her purse, her gaze fixed on the rain-damp curtains beside the open French windows.
Maybe the killer had left as they’d entered the club. Or—
Heather shoved Dante against the door frame. “Stay there.”
Or maybe he’d never had the chance.
.38 extended in both hands, Heather crossed the room, edging past the bed, to the French windows. Stepping out onto the balcony, she slid low and to the left, gun aimed at the opposite end of the rain-slick balcony. Empty. She leaned against the black iron railing, gun lowered.
She looked down into the street below. A few pre–Mardi Gras revelers staggered along the wet sidewalk. Laughter drifted up like smoke.
Wiping rain from her face, Heather closed her eyes for a moment. Two deaths in one location. Another broken pattern. The violence was escalating. Why now? And why here?
The sound of a car engine opened Heather’s eyes. Two squad cars raced down the narrow street, followed by a blue-light blinking unmarked. All three screeched to a halt in front of the club. As the uniforms climbed out of the squad cars, Heather waved.
“Upstairs,” she called. “Door’s open.”
Looking up, one of the cops waved back.
Heather pushed aside the curtains and stepped back into the room. Dante hadn’t stayed put. He sat on the blood-soaked bed beside the girl’s body, his leather jacket spread over the victim’s —Gina, he said her name was Gina— body.
Heather couldn’t see Dante’s face; his attention was fixed on the victim’s slashed wrists. His hands knotted into fists. The blood stench, the lingering echoes of violence and fear, the girl’s stark, glazing stare; none of it frightened Dante. Most people wouldn’t be able to stay in the same room with a friend’s body, let alone sit beside it on a blood-soaked bed.
But Dante had put aside whatever he was feeling in order to cover her, to give her back some dignity.
“She’s still warm,” he said.
Squatting beside the bed, Heather touched Dante’s arm. “I know this is hard,” she said. “I know . But you have to remove the jacket. I need to secure the scene—”
Dante turned to look at her, his gaze hidden behind his shades. “He took everything from her,” he said, voice low and harsh. “The jacket stays.”
“I understand,” Heather said. Had anyone done the same for her mother? Or even wanted to? “And I wish I could leave it with her. But you might be destroying evidence.”
From the hall, she heard New Orleans’s finest pounding their way up the stairs. Dante stood. Heather reached over and plucked his jacket from the body.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Dante took the jacket from her. “Y’know, I believe you are.”
Heather touched his elbow. “Let’s talk out in the hall,” she said, voice level and, she hoped, soothing. “You can’t be in here and I have some questions to ask.”
She wished he’d take off the shades. Unable to read his eyes, his expression was lost to her. But his tight jaw and tense, agitated body language spoke volumes. She didn’t want to force him out of the room, but would, if necessary.
With a curt nod, Dante stepped out into the hall. He glanced down the hall toward the stairs. Breathing in relief, Heather followed.
“What questions?”
“When did you see Gina
On the wall behind the bed, a message had been scrawled in blood, the uneven, slanting letters smeared across most of the wall.
Wake Up S
“Gina,” Dante whispered.
Heather looked at him sharply. “You knew her?”
Dante nodded, disbelief, shock, and something Heather couldn’t quite name shadowing his face. He fumbled for the sunglasses on top of his head, slipped them on.
Shifting her .38 to her left hand, Heather retrieved her cell phone from her purse and thumbed in the number for the Eighth District. “Agent Wallace,” she said into the phone. “There’s been a homicide at 666 St. Peter. Club Hell.”
Switching off the phone, Heather slid it back into her purse, her gaze fixed on the rain-damp curtains beside the open French windows.
Maybe the killer had left as they’d entered the club. Or—
Heather shoved Dante against the door frame. “Stay there.”
Or maybe he’d never had the chance.
.38 extended in both hands, Heather crossed the room, edging past the bed, to the French windows. Stepping out onto the balcony, she slid low and to the left, gun aimed at the opposite end of the rain-slick balcony. Empty. She leaned against the black iron railing, gun lowered.
She looked down into the street below. A few pre–Mardi Gras revelers staggered along the wet sidewalk. Laughter drifted up like smoke.
Wiping rain from her face, Heather closed her eyes for a moment. Two deaths in one location. Another broken pattern. The violence was escalating. Why now? And why here?
The sound of a car engine opened Heather’s eyes. Two squad cars raced down the narrow street, followed by a blue-light blinking unmarked. All three screeched to a halt in front of the club. As the uniforms climbed out of the squad cars, Heather waved.
“Upstairs,” she called. “Door’s open.”
Looking up, one of the cops waved back.
Heather pushed aside the curtains and stepped back into the room. Dante hadn’t stayed put. He sat on the blood-soaked bed beside the girl’s body, his leather jacket spread over the victim’s —Gina, he said her name was Gina— body.
Heather couldn’t see Dante’s face; his attention was fixed on the victim’s slashed wrists. His hands knotted into fists. The blood stench, the lingering echoes of violence and fear, the girl’s stark, glazing stare; none of it frightened Dante. Most people wouldn’t be able to stay in the same room with a friend’s body, let alone sit beside it on a blood-soaked bed.
But Dante had put aside whatever he was feeling in order to cover her, to give her back some dignity.
“She’s still warm,” he said.
Squatting beside the bed, Heather touched Dante’s arm. “I know this is hard,” she said. “I know . But you have to remove the jacket. I need to secure the scene—”
Dante turned to look at her, his gaze hidden behind his shades. “He took everything from her,” he said, voice low and harsh. “The jacket stays.”
“I understand,” Heather said. Had anyone done the same for her mother? Or even wanted to? “And I wish I could leave it with her. But you might be destroying evidence.”
From the hall, she heard New Orleans’s finest pounding their way up the stairs. Dante stood. Heather reached over and plucked his jacket from the body.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Dante took the jacket from her. “Y’know, I believe you are.”
Heather touched his elbow. “Let’s talk out in the hall,” she said, voice level and, she hoped, soothing. “You can’t be in here and I have some questions to ask.”
She wished he’d take off the shades. Unable to read his eyes, his expression was lost to her. But his tight jaw and tense, agitated body language spoke volumes. She didn’t want to force him out of the room, but would, if necessary.
With a curt nod, Dante stepped out into the hall. He glanced down the hall toward the stairs. Breathing in relief, Heather followed.
“What questions?”
“When did you see Gina
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