Tempted in the Night Read online

  When she glared at him, he got his first good look at her face. She was stunning. It was too dark to see the color of her eyes, but her lashes were long and full. Her eyebrows were like dark accent marks above her eyes, and her oval face tapered to a delicate but firm chin. A slender nose with a slightly rounded end gave her an impish look, and her full lips, slightly parted now, were a temptation all their own.

  John cleared his throat. “Look, you’re in serious trouble. A little cooperation would go a long way. Who are you?”

  Still, she refused to answer him.

  He tried to read her expression as she looked up at him through disheveled hair. When she spoke, her words were soft and beseeching. “Please, you have to help me. People are going to die if we don’t stop him. You have to let me go.”

  She sounded so sincere, he almost found himself believing her; wanting to help her. Almost. “I don’t think so.”

  She immediately renewed her struggles to break free, cursing and issuing threats of violence. John stood and picked up her sword. Then he reached down to grip her arm and hauled her to her feet. This was a deeply disturbed, possibly psychotic woman in desperate need of a seventy-two-hour lockdown and a Thorazine drip—and John knew a judge who owed him a favor. He’d get Zorro checked in and then would go home where, if he was lucky, he might still grab a couple of hours of sleep.

  Hours later, John was jerked from a deep sleep by the sound of his home phone ringing. As he lay there debating whether or not to answer it, the ringing stopped. He held his breath, waiting to see if it started up again, and when it actually seemed that it wouldn’t, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift . . .

  He came awake at the sound of his cell phone ringing.

  Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, he saw that it was almost noon, which meant he’d had maybe two hours of sleep. Throwing back the covers, he half-rolled, half-fell out of bed, still fully clothed in yesterday’s wrinkled outfit, and stumbled across the room to where his coat lay draped over the back of a chair.

  Hauling it up, he dug in the pocket for his phone and answered it just before it rolled over to voice mail.

  “Boehler here.” His voice sounded like wet gravel under rolling tires.

  “I want to see you in my office. Now,” Gamble ordered.

  “Yes, si—” The line went dead. John stared at the phone in dumb fascination for a minute. “Good morning to you, too,” he mumbled, wondering what he’d done wrong this time.

  The events of the prior evening came racing back—the dark figure in the park, the sword-wielding, screaming banshee—whose name he still didn’t know because she’d had no ID on her and had refused to talk to him, even when he’d checked her into the psych facility for observation.

  John remembered the look of hate and betrayal on her face when he’d dropped her off—it had bothered him. It shouldn’t have. His rational side argued that she was just another psychotic criminal, no matter how attractive a package she came in. Yet, even now, he remembered the details of that package much too vividly—the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. And that ass. He felt a groan building deep inside and quickly reined in his thoughts.

  He’d hated leaving her in lockdown, but told himself, again, that leaving her in lockdown was better than the alternative—jail. But what was he to do with her? Unbidden, another memory rose, this time of him straddling her at the park; of her ass, round and firm. He imagined her on all fours while he knelt behind, naked from the waist down and burying himself in her, time and again.

  He shook his head and remembered her last lover—the man he’d seen in the park; the one who’d barely escaped with his body parts. No, he needed to keep this situation strictly professional, which meant that in seventy-two hours, he had three options: file charges against her and throw her in jail, have her committed for a full psych-eval, or let her go.

  He was hoping her short stay in lockdown would make her more forthcoming with information about herself so he could make the right decision. His plan to pay her a little visit as soon as he woke up today would have to wait, though, and he felt an inexplicable twinge of disappointment.

  Not bothering to change clothes, John ran his fingers through his hair and put on his shoes. His holster was slung over the bedpost, so he shrugged into it and then, out of habit, checked the gun to make sure the safety was on. As he left the bedroom, he grabbed his coat and pulled it on as he walked. He was almost to the front door when he shoved his hand into his coat pocket and it slipped through to the other side. Wondering how it could possibly have a hole in it, he remembered the sword slicing the air and just missing him. The blade must have caught the inside of his coat instead. He tried to remember what had been in that pocket and suddenly recalled shoving his badge in there just before racing after the woman.

  Swearing, he checked his other pockets, but the badge wasn’t there. On the chance that he’d lost it after getting home, he retraced his steps from the front door to the bedroom, even going so far as to examine the bed. Next, he ran out to his car and searched it. No luck.

  Heaving a sigh, he started the car and headed for the station. As he drove, he pulled out his cell phone and called the main desk. “Hi, Joyce. I need to report a lost ID. Yeah—mine.”

  The call took about ten minutes and by the time he clicked off, he was already halfway to the station. Traffic wasn’t a problem and fifteen minutes later, he was walking through the building, headed for Gamble’s office.

  His cell phone rang again and he recognized Joyce’s number. Hoping someone had turned in his badge, he answered the call. “Tell me you have good news.”

  “Sorry, John, not the kind you’re hoping for,” she replied sympathetically. “Billy, over at Impound, called. He said to tell you they just brought in a car you might be interested in—a rental.”

  John knew that his sword-wielding Jane Doe hadn’t materialized out of thin air. He figured she’d left her car close enough to the park to have walked there—or run there, as the case might be—so he’d asked to be notified of any cars towed in from inside a two-mile radius of Thompson Park.

  He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost one. “Joyce, Gamble’s expecting me to walk in the door any second. Can you call Billy back and tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can?”

  “Will do.”

  “Okay, thanks. I owe you.”

  Once he reached Gamble’s office, he took a bracing breath and then knocked on the closed door.

  Gamble’s voice erupted from the other side. “Come in.”

  John hadn’t even made it to the chair in front of Gamble’s desk before the assistant chief started in on him. “Were you in Thompson Park last night? South side?”

  Warning bells started pealing inside his head. “Yes.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Walking.”

  Gamble stared at him, his hard glare boring through him. After a second, he opened his middle desk drawer, reached in to grab something, and then tossed it onto the desk.

  John stared down at his badge. Resisting the urge to snatch it up, he raised his gaze to meet Gamble’s.

  “We found that at the park last night,” the assistant chief said. “It was under a bush, less than a foot away from Simon Brody’s dead body.”

  Chapter 2

  Simon Brody was dead? John’s threat in front of the courthouse echoed in his head. He was in big trouble. “How’d he die?”

  The assistant chief’s expression was both suspicious and doubtful. “You telling me you don’t know?”

  John wanted to send his fist through the other man’s face, but carefully schooled his expression to reveal none of his thoughts. He started to reach inside his jacket for his gun, but froze when Gamble raised the hand previously resting in his lap and placed it on the desk, aiming the .40-caliber Glock at him. “I suggest you move real slow,” Gamble advised.

  Resentment welled up inside as John used his fingertips to pull his own depa
rtment-issued weapon from its shoulder holster and place it on the desk. Raising both hands so the assistant chief could see them, he unhurriedly raised his leg and rested it on the seat of the chair in front of the desk. Then, slowly, he lowered one hand and used it to pull his S&W Airweight from his ankle holster. He laid it on the desk beside the Glock.

  “Since you obviously consider me a suspect,” he said, “here are my guns for testing. Ballistics will verify that neither gun has been cleaned or fired in at least a week, since I was at the practice range last Tuesday.”

  Gamble made no move to take either weapon. “Brody wasn’t shot.” He stared at John like he would a specimen under a microscope, but John ignored him and waited patiently for him to continue. The wait wasn’t long. “He was found with two small holes in the side of his neck, over the carotid artery. The M.E.’s report said he was missing a lot of blood—emphasis on a lot.”

  Exsanguinators. It fit the MO. Immediately the image of the figure from the night before sprang to mind. It had been the killer he’d been searching for—and the man had escaped, thanks to that crazy bitch. John’s irritation with her ratcheted up a notch. He knew he needed to do something about her, but first he had to find out exactly how much trouble he was in.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, sir. Are you arresting me?”

  “Are you confessing?”

  “No. For the record, I didn’t kill Brody.” John fought to keep his patience. “I didn’t even know he was there.”

  Gamble stared at him, his expression unreadable. Finally, he heaved a small sigh. “Let’s just say that right now, you’re a ‘person of interest.’ Pending further investigation, you’re relieved of all duties except one—helping Dresden.”

  John didn’t like it, but knew better than to argue. He reached for his badge, but Gamble palmed it and moved it out of his reach. “I’ll hang on to this for a while. The gun, too,” he added when John reached for the weapon.

  The Glock was department issue, but . . .

  “The Airweight is mine,” he said, picking it up and tucking it into his ankle holster. “Is there anything else you wanted?”

  “No. That’ll be all.”

  John left, managing not to slam the door after him, and headed for his desk. There were papers and files there he needed to get. Some distance behind him, he heard the sound of Gamble’s door opening.

  “I’m going to lunch,” he heard the assistant chief grumble to his secretary.

  John flipped through a stack of folders on his desk and pulled out the ones he wanted: all the Exsanguinator files. Glancing around, he noticed the bullpen was nearly empty. Only a few cops remained at their desks on the far side of the room. Picking up his files, he was about to leave when a thought occurred to him. Setting his files down, he grabbed an empty folder off his desk and walked to Gamble’s office. As he passed the secretary, he held up the folder.

  “Gamble wanted this on his desk before he got back from lunch,” he said, barely glancing at her as he headed for the door.

  She nodded, reaching into her lower desk drawer to pull out her purse. “Just set it anywhere,” she told him. “I’m going to lunch now, too, unless you need something.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m good. Enjoy lunch.”

  He stepped inside the office and slowly eased the door shut behind him.

  Gamble’s desk was a mess, but it didn’t take long to find the file on Brody. He picked it up and scanned the contents. There wasn’t much there.

  Closing the folder, he carried it to the door and peeked out. The secretary was gone. Behind her desk, the copy machine beckoned. What he was about to do would no doubt be the nail in his coffin if anyone found out, but John figured his career was already over, so what did it matter?

  Ten minutes later, he’d copied the contents of the folder, returned it to Gamble’s office, placing it exactly where he’d found it, and was back at his desk, gathering his things. With a final look around, he left. He was almost to the elevators when the doors opened and Dresden stepped out.

  “Detective Boehler? Are you leaving?” Dresden asked, his superior tone instantly grating on John’s nerves.

  John didn’t slow down as he passed the shorter man, wanting only to be in that elevator when the doors closed, preferably with Dresden on the other side.

  “Where are you going?” Dresden demanded, taking a step to follow him just as John hurried onto the elevator. “You’re supposed to help me today.”

  “Just delivering a few files, Dick.” John held them up with one hand as he punched the lobby button with his other and watched the doors close.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon at home, reading the file on Brody’s murder and reviewing the other Exsanguinator cases.

  John couldn’t find any reason why Brody would be involved with the Exsanguinators as Miles Van Horne had been. More likely, Brody was a victim because he matched the latest victim profile—he was a killer who’d escaped justice. Further reason to believe the man he’d seen in the park that night was an Exsanguinator.

  John tried to remember the man’s face, but instead saw only the image of a raven-haired beauty with brilliant emerald green eyes that had scorched him last night when he’d left her. He rubbed his temples, trying to wipe her face from his mind, and turned his thoughts to the Exsanguinator once more. It seemed unlikely that he would find the man in Thompson Park a second night in a row, but he had to look.

  The night was alive with screams of pain and death. Fear kept her frozen in place. She wanted to shut her eyes, but couldn’t. The creatures were everywhere, looking human except for their talon-like fangs and fiery red eyes. There were so many of them. Too many.

  She huddled closer to her mother’s side. Felt her mother tremble. Then, in a flash, her mother was gone and she was alone.

  She looked around—desperate, terrified—and saw her mother lying on the ground. So still. Unmoving.

  “Momma, wake up.” She crawled to her, frightened at the sight of blood covering her mother’s neck and body.

  Feeling a cold trickle of fear lance down her spine, she turned and fell back. One of the creatures was coming toward her. His mouth was covered in blood; her mother’s blood. When he smiled, his fangs dripped a crimson red.

  She scrambled back, pumping her childlike legs as hard as she could, knowing she could never move fast enough. Never get away.

  Heart slamming against her chest, Jessica pulled herself from the nightmare only to feel hands holding her down. Immediately, she struggled, knowing she was fighting for her very life.

  “Hold her,” a disembodied voice ordered.

  “I’m trying,” a second voice grumbled. Another set of hands joined the first, pinning her to the bed as she struggled against the captivity. She felt a sharp pain in her thigh and, in her mind, saw fangs sinking deep into her flesh. She cried out in frustration and fear.

  The sharp pain seemed unending, and she felt her body grow sluggish from the loss of blood. She continued to fight, but her efforts seemed ineffectual. After a few minutes, the hands holding her eased their painful grip and finally let go. She tried to jump out of bed, to escape, but her body was too heavy to even move. She should have been terrified, but she wasn’t. She lay still, strangely calm in the face of her own death.

  From somewhere in the darkness, the voices spoke again.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a psychotic episode or maybe just a nightmare.” The voices grew fainter.

  “That must have been one hell of a nightmare . . .”

  The ringing of the phone dragged John from his sleep with an eerie feeling of déjà vu. After hours of wandering around the park in vain the night before, he’d finally dragged himself to bed at four in the morning.

  “Hello?” he barked into his cell phone.

  “Yo, Johnny. I can’t hang on to the car forever. You want to see what’s in it or not?”

  Shit, he’d forgotten. “Sorry, Billy. Thanks
for calling. I’m on my way.”

  After shaving, showering, and putting on a fresh change of clothes, John felt almost human as he headed for the impound yard.

  “Found it over by Thompson Park,” Billy said a little later, leading John across an almost filled parking lot and stopping at a white, midsized Buick. “Here it is.”

  John peered through the windows and spotted a purse on the floor of the front passenger seat, with a silver-and-onyx sword scabbard propped next to it.

  “Thanks, Billy. Looks like you were right.” He straightened and pulled out the keys that he’d confiscated from the woman the night before. He pressed the button on the automatic opener and heard the satisfying click of the lock bolts opening on the doors. Now, he thought with anticipation, it was time to find out exactly who this Jane Doe was.

  It was almost 4:00 P.M. when John pressed the buzzer on the door to the lockdown wing of the psych facility. The paperwork had taken longer than he’d anticipated, not that he’d hurried.

  He turned his face to the camera so the guard inside would have a good view of him and waited. Seconds later, John was given instructions over the intercom to enter, followed by the mechanical grind of the heavy-duty door sliding back. John stepped past it and stopped at the next set of doors, which didn’t open until the outer door closed behind him. Once inside the facility, he crossed the open seating area, quickly scanning the faces of the dozen or so “guests” sitting there, searching for one in particular but not finding it.

  He made a brief stop at the nurses’ front desk before heading to the room where he expected to find Jane Doe. Jessica, he quickly amended as he knocked on the door and waited for a response.

  He was met with silence, and though courtesy dictated that he should knock a second time and wait, after what he’d discovered digging through her purse he wasn’t feeling particularly inclined toward courtesy.

  He pushed open the door and found her sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard. She was wearing a pair of unisex institutional coveralls; the makeup around her eyes was smudged and her hair hung in snarls about her face.