Read Online A Rush of Wings by Adrian Phoenix - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adrian Phoenix
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last?”
“Last night.”
Heather stared at Dante, feeling as though someone had just dumped a bucket of ice over her head. “Last night? You sure?”
Another broken pattern. The CCK— if it was the CCK—always kept his victims for several days. Intuition whispered, It’s him, all right .
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dante said. “We were even in this room.”
No coincidence. Dante was meant to find her. Heather glanced at the blood-smeared wall behind the bed. WAKE UP S. Last time, it had simply read Wake Up. What did the S stand for?
Could an obsession with Dante be the reason for the broken pattern? The messages meant for him? Lafayette. The cigarette-lighter-burned symbol on Daniel Spurrell’s chest. The images of a hooded Dante wearing the anarchy symbol around his throat, then around his wrist. If he’d been meant to find the body…her pulse raced.
He’s communicating. With Dante .
She was close to the killer. Closer than she’d ever been.
“Does ‘Wake Up S’ mean anything—”
Heather turned as two uniformed officers rounded the corner from the landing. “Special Agent Wallace, FBI,” she said. “I’m reaching for my identification.” As she slid a hand into her purse, the first cop, flushed with excitement and adrenaline, zeroed in on Dante and dropped a hand to his holster.
“You!” he barked at Dante. “On the floor! Now!”
“Tell your partner to back off,” Heather said, displaying her badge to the second officer, a man older, thicker, and more certain than the one yapping like a terrier at Dante. “He’s the club owner. He knows the victim.”
“Jefferson,” the cop sighed. “Enough. Leave off.” Shaking his head, he stopped in front of Heather. “Manning,” he said. Nodded toward his partner. “Rookie and still green as a gator’s hind end.”
Heather smiled. “No kidding.”
She glanced at Dante. He stood at ease, pretending to ignore the now-silenced rookie. He even yawned. She wasn’t fooled, however; she read the tension in his shoulders and noted the wound-up-ready-to-spring tautness of his muscles.
“Oh, Jesus.”
Heather looked over at Jefferson. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the bound body, the message on the wall, his mouth open as he sucked in the reek of blood and death and shit. Jefferson blanched. Swallowed hard.
“Don’t puke in here, asshole.”
Two men stepped from the landing and into the hall. The speaker pushed past Jefferson and walked into the room. His low-voiced rebuke, rumpled suit, and easy, confident stride told Heather the newcomer was a detective, as was the man following him. Partners, no doubt. His bored gaze scanned the scene, his lids shuttering like a camera lens, capturing every detail, etching every shadow and blood trail into memory.
His partner nodded at Heather, an unlit cigarette between his lips, a camera in his hands. He stepped into the room, stopping just inside the door. The camera whined as he snapped shots of the scene.
Manning and his rookie partner stood at either side of the door, guarding the scene. Jefferson’s complexion was greenish and he kept his gaze on the floor.
“You must be the fed Collins told me about,” the first detective said.
“That’s right,” Heather said. She walked into the room, edging past the cameraman. “Special Agent Heather Wallace. And you are…?”
“LaRousse,” he said, turning to face Heather. “Homicide.” He tilted his head in the direction of his partner. “That’s Davis, over there.”
“Hey,” Davis said, tucking the cigarette behind his ear. He slipped the camera strap around his neck. Reaching inside his jacket, he withdrew a notepad with a pen clipped to it. He began taking notes, his pen scratching across the pad.
LaRousse’s gaze slid the length of Heather’s body, his lids shuttering several times. “Collins never mentioned that you were a looker.” He winked. “Guess he was keeping that info to himself.” Smiling, he shook his
“Last night.”
Heather stared at Dante, feeling as though someone had just dumped a bucket of ice over her head. “Last night? You sure?”
Another broken pattern. The CCK— if it was the CCK—always kept his victims for several days. Intuition whispered, It’s him, all right .
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dante said. “We were even in this room.”
No coincidence. Dante was meant to find her. Heather glanced at the blood-smeared wall behind the bed. WAKE UP S. Last time, it had simply read Wake Up. What did the S stand for?
Could an obsession with Dante be the reason for the broken pattern? The messages meant for him? Lafayette. The cigarette-lighter-burned symbol on Daniel Spurrell’s chest. The images of a hooded Dante wearing the anarchy symbol around his throat, then around his wrist. If he’d been meant to find the body…her pulse raced.
He’s communicating. With Dante .
She was close to the killer. Closer than she’d ever been.
“Does ‘Wake Up S’ mean anything—”
Heather turned as two uniformed officers rounded the corner from the landing. “Special Agent Wallace, FBI,” she said. “I’m reaching for my identification.” As she slid a hand into her purse, the first cop, flushed with excitement and adrenaline, zeroed in on Dante and dropped a hand to his holster.
“You!” he barked at Dante. “On the floor! Now!”
“Tell your partner to back off,” Heather said, displaying her badge to the second officer, a man older, thicker, and more certain than the one yapping like a terrier at Dante. “He’s the club owner. He knows the victim.”
“Jefferson,” the cop sighed. “Enough. Leave off.” Shaking his head, he stopped in front of Heather. “Manning,” he said. Nodded toward his partner. “Rookie and still green as a gator’s hind end.”
Heather smiled. “No kidding.”
She glanced at Dante. He stood at ease, pretending to ignore the now-silenced rookie. He even yawned. She wasn’t fooled, however; she read the tension in his shoulders and noted the wound-up-ready-to-spring tautness of his muscles.
“Oh, Jesus.”
Heather looked over at Jefferson. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the bound body, the message on the wall, his mouth open as he sucked in the reek of blood and death and shit. Jefferson blanched. Swallowed hard.
“Don’t puke in here, asshole.”
Two men stepped from the landing and into the hall. The speaker pushed past Jefferson and walked into the room. His low-voiced rebuke, rumpled suit, and easy, confident stride told Heather the newcomer was a detective, as was the man following him. Partners, no doubt. His bored gaze scanned the scene, his lids shuttering like a camera lens, capturing every detail, etching every shadow and blood trail into memory.
His partner nodded at Heather, an unlit cigarette between his lips, a camera in his hands. He stepped into the room, stopping just inside the door. The camera whined as he snapped shots of the scene.
Manning and his rookie partner stood at either side of the door, guarding the scene. Jefferson’s complexion was greenish and he kept his gaze on the floor.
“You must be the fed Collins told me about,” the first detective said.
“That’s right,” Heather said. She walked into the room, edging past the cameraman. “Special Agent Heather Wallace. And you are…?”
“LaRousse,” he said, turning to face Heather. “Homicide.” He tilted his head in the direction of his partner. “That’s Davis, over there.”
“Hey,” Davis said, tucking the cigarette behind his ear. He slipped the camera strap around his neck. Reaching inside his jacket, he withdrew a notepad with a pen clipped to it. He began taking notes, his pen scratching across the pad.
LaRousse’s gaze slid the length of Heather’s body, his lids shuttering several times. “Collins never mentioned that you were a looker.” He winked. “Guess he was keeping that info to himself.” Smiling, he shook his
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