Read Online Turned (Book 1 in the Vampire Journals) by Morgan Rice by Morgan Rice - Free Book Online
Authors: Morgan Rice
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had held onto her career, like her father. It was what she thought her father wanted. Now her father was dead, and she never really found out what he wanted. And she was tired. And alone.
“No witnesses,” snapped one of the detectives walking beside her. “Forensics say it happened sometime between 10:15 and 10:28 P.M. Not much signs of a struggle.”
Grace didn’t like this crime scene. There were way too many people involved, already and too many people had gotten here before her. Every move she made would be on display. And no matter what great investigative work she did, the credit would end up being stolen by someone else. There were just too many departments involved, which meant too much politics.
She finally brushed past the rest of the reporters, and entered the taped off area, reserved for only the elite officers. As she headed down the next hallway, things finally quieted down. She could think again.
The door to his dressing room stood slightly ajar. She reached up, donned a latex glove, and gently nudged it open the rest of the way.
She had seen it all in her 20 years as a cop. She’d seen people murdered in just about every possible way, even ways she could not have come up with in her worst nightmares. But she had never seen anything like this.
Not because it was particularly bloody. Not because some horrific violence had taken place. It was something else. Something surreal. It was too quiet. Everything was in perfect place. Except, of course, for the body. He sat slumped backwards in his chair, his neck exposed. And there, under the light, were two perfect holes, right in his jugular vein.
No blood. No signs of struggle. No torn clothing. Nothing else out of place. It was as if a bat had descended, sucked his blood perfectly clean, then flew away, without touching anything else. It was eerie. And outright terrifying. If his skin hadn’t turned completely white, she would have thought he was still alive, just taking a nap. She even felt tempted to go over and feel his pulse. But she knew that would be stupid.
Sergei Rakov. He was young. And from what she’d heard, he’d been an arrogant prick. Could he already have had enemies?
What in hell could have done this? She wondered. An animal? A person? A new sort of weapon? Or had he done it to himself?
“The angle of attack rules out suicide,” Detective Ramos said, standing at her side with his notepad and, as always, reading her mind.
“I want everything you have on him,” she said. “I want to know who he owed money to. I want to know who his enemies were—I want to know his ex-girlfriends, his future wives. I want it all. He may have pissed the wrong people off.”
“Yes, mam,” he said, and hurried from the room.
Why would they pick this exact time to murder him? Why intermission? Were they sending some sort of message?
She walked slowly in the heavily carpeted room, circling, looking at him from every possible angle. He had long, black wavy hair, and was strikingly attractive, even in death. What a waste.
At that moment, a sudden noise filled the room. All the officers turned at once. They looked up, and saw that the small TV in the corner had lit up. It played footage of the night’s performance. Beethoven’s Ninth filled the room.
One of the detectives approached the TV to turn it off.
“Don’t,” she said.
The detective stopped in mid-stride.
“I want to hear it.”
She stood there, staring at Sergei, as his voice filled the room. His voice that had been alive only hours before. It was eerie.
Grace circled the room once more. This time she kneeled.
“We’ve already been over this room, detective,” the FBI agent said, impatient.
She spotted something out of the corner of her eye. She reached down, far beneath one of the slick armchairs. She craned her neck and twisted her arm, and reached all the way under.
She finally found what she was looking for. She stood, red-faced, and held up a small piece of
“No witnesses,” snapped one of the detectives walking beside her. “Forensics say it happened sometime between 10:15 and 10:28 P.M. Not much signs of a struggle.”
Grace didn’t like this crime scene. There were way too many people involved, already and too many people had gotten here before her. Every move she made would be on display. And no matter what great investigative work she did, the credit would end up being stolen by someone else. There were just too many departments involved, which meant too much politics.
She finally brushed past the rest of the reporters, and entered the taped off area, reserved for only the elite officers. As she headed down the next hallway, things finally quieted down. She could think again.
The door to his dressing room stood slightly ajar. She reached up, donned a latex glove, and gently nudged it open the rest of the way.
She had seen it all in her 20 years as a cop. She’d seen people murdered in just about every possible way, even ways she could not have come up with in her worst nightmares. But she had never seen anything like this.
Not because it was particularly bloody. Not because some horrific violence had taken place. It was something else. Something surreal. It was too quiet. Everything was in perfect place. Except, of course, for the body. He sat slumped backwards in his chair, his neck exposed. And there, under the light, were two perfect holes, right in his jugular vein.
No blood. No signs of struggle. No torn clothing. Nothing else out of place. It was as if a bat had descended, sucked his blood perfectly clean, then flew away, without touching anything else. It was eerie. And outright terrifying. If his skin hadn’t turned completely white, she would have thought he was still alive, just taking a nap. She even felt tempted to go over and feel his pulse. But she knew that would be stupid.
Sergei Rakov. He was young. And from what she’d heard, he’d been an arrogant prick. Could he already have had enemies?
What in hell could have done this? She wondered. An animal? A person? A new sort of weapon? Or had he done it to himself?
“The angle of attack rules out suicide,” Detective Ramos said, standing at her side with his notepad and, as always, reading her mind.
“I want everything you have on him,” she said. “I want to know who he owed money to. I want to know who his enemies were—I want to know his ex-girlfriends, his future wives. I want it all. He may have pissed the wrong people off.”
“Yes, mam,” he said, and hurried from the room.
Why would they pick this exact time to murder him? Why intermission? Were they sending some sort of message?
She walked slowly in the heavily carpeted room, circling, looking at him from every possible angle. He had long, black wavy hair, and was strikingly attractive, even in death. What a waste.
At that moment, a sudden noise filled the room. All the officers turned at once. They looked up, and saw that the small TV in the corner had lit up. It played footage of the night’s performance. Beethoven’s Ninth filled the room.
One of the detectives approached the TV to turn it off.
“Don’t,” she said.
The detective stopped in mid-stride.
“I want to hear it.”
She stood there, staring at Sergei, as his voice filled the room. His voice that had been alive only hours before. It was eerie.
Grace circled the room once more. This time she kneeled.
“We’ve already been over this room, detective,” the FBI agent said, impatient.
She spotted something out of the corner of her eye. She reached down, far beneath one of the slick armchairs. She craned her neck and twisted her arm, and reached all the way under.
She finally found what she was looking for. She stood, red-faced, and held up a small piece of
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