natural, he couldn’t take any chances. Not when Emma Pierce was related to at least two murder victims.
He called in an SIU cleanup team, then put on some gloves and walked over to the window, opening the blind. Light flooded into the room, highlighting the decay—human and otherwise. Several envelopes sat on top of the drawers next to the bed. He picked them up. Bills, mostly. But one envelope caught his eye, because the return address was Hopeworth.
He tore it open. It was a letter from Dr. Frank Lloyd, asking Emma to contact him immediately. The request was dated August 17—the day after the first murder. He wondered if there was a connection—and if Hopeworth knew anything about it. Not that they were likely to tell him. The people at Hopeworth were something of a law unto themselves. He put the letter in his pocket and opened the first of the drawers. Neither the drawers nor the room itself gave up any further secrets.
In the second bedroom, he discovered a wardrobe full of clothes—modern stuff, not the type worn by most women in their fifties. Someone else had stayed in the house with Emma, and for some time, if the range of apparel was anything to go by.
So where was that person now? And why hadn’t she reported Emma’s death to the authorities?
He searched the remaining bedroom, but he didn’t find anything else, so he went back downstairs.
He was in the kitchen when the pain hit. Fire flashed through his brain and sent him stumbling forward. He grabbed the counter, holding on as the kitchen danced around him. Sweat rolled into his eyes, stinging, blurring his vision. For an instant, everything went black.
Then it was gone, as swiftly as it had come. Leaving him with the certainty that Sam was in trouble.
“Assistant Director, are you okay?”
He swung around. Michaels stood in the doorway, regarding him with concern.
“No. I think the smell finally got to me.” He took a deep breath, fighting the urgency beating through his veins. “The body’s upstairs.”
“Foul play evident?”
“No, but look for it. I want cellular analyses included.”
Michaels frowned. “That’ll take some time.”
“Emma Pierce has nothing but time. Get the sweepers into the second bedroom, too. Someone else has been staying here, so see if you can pick up any DNA traces.”
Someone had cared enough to stay here and look after Emma as death approached. So why hadn’t she cared enough to report the death and bury her?
Michaels nodded. “You want us to contact you if we find anything?”
“Yes. Send the results through as soon as you have them.”
“Right.” Michaels headed for the stairs.
Gabriel tapped the wristcom’s contact button, then said, “Place a call to the SIU.” The screen went blank for a moment, then the SIU’s digital secretary answered.
“Christine, have we got a location signal on Agent Ryan?”
“Sector Five. One-five-six George Street, Fitzroy.”
“Anything of importance at that location?”
“It is commonly known as the rave district.”
Gabriel swore softly. While he’d asked her to investigate who might have supplied Jadrone to Harry, he hadn’t expected her to practically run out the door the minute he’d left her office. “Any reports of trouble in that area?”
“None, sir.”
No reports of trouble, no indication that Sam herself was in trouble. So why was he so certain that she was? “Christine, send someone to collect my car. I’m heading out to join Agent Ryan.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the connection broke, he walked outside and called to his alternate shape. Power surged, burning through his body, snatching away sensation and pain as every nerve ending shuddered, twisted, to find new form. Then the sensation died, and an odd sense of emptiness followed. A heartbeat later, he was a hawk soaring skyward, heading toward the city.
—
Smoke tickled Sam’s throat, making her cough. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry, empty of saliva. Her throat
He called in an SIU cleanup team, then put on some gloves and walked over to the window, opening the blind. Light flooded into the room, highlighting the decay—human and otherwise. Several envelopes sat on top of the drawers next to the bed. He picked them up. Bills, mostly. But one envelope caught his eye, because the return address was Hopeworth.
He tore it open. It was a letter from Dr. Frank Lloyd, asking Emma to contact him immediately. The request was dated August 17—the day after the first murder. He wondered if there was a connection—and if Hopeworth knew anything about it. Not that they were likely to tell him. The people at Hopeworth were something of a law unto themselves. He put the letter in his pocket and opened the first of the drawers. Neither the drawers nor the room itself gave up any further secrets.
In the second bedroom, he discovered a wardrobe full of clothes—modern stuff, not the type worn by most women in their fifties. Someone else had stayed in the house with Emma, and for some time, if the range of apparel was anything to go by.
So where was that person now? And why hadn’t she reported Emma’s death to the authorities?
He searched the remaining bedroom, but he didn’t find anything else, so he went back downstairs.
He was in the kitchen when the pain hit. Fire flashed through his brain and sent him stumbling forward. He grabbed the counter, holding on as the kitchen danced around him. Sweat rolled into his eyes, stinging, blurring his vision. For an instant, everything went black.
Then it was gone, as swiftly as it had come. Leaving him with the certainty that Sam was in trouble.
“Assistant Director, are you okay?”
He swung around. Michaels stood in the doorway, regarding him with concern.
“No. I think the smell finally got to me.” He took a deep breath, fighting the urgency beating through his veins. “The body’s upstairs.”
“Foul play evident?”
“No, but look for it. I want cellular analyses included.”
Michaels frowned. “That’ll take some time.”
“Emma Pierce has nothing but time. Get the sweepers into the second bedroom, too. Someone else has been staying here, so see if you can pick up any DNA traces.”
Someone had cared enough to stay here and look after Emma as death approached. So why hadn’t she cared enough to report the death and bury her?
Michaels nodded. “You want us to contact you if we find anything?”
“Yes. Send the results through as soon as you have them.”
“Right.” Michaels headed for the stairs.
Gabriel tapped the wristcom’s contact button, then said, “Place a call to the SIU.” The screen went blank for a moment, then the SIU’s digital secretary answered.
“Christine, have we got a location signal on Agent Ryan?”
“Sector Five. One-five-six George Street, Fitzroy.”
“Anything of importance at that location?”
“It is commonly known as the rave district.”
Gabriel swore softly. While he’d asked her to investigate who might have supplied Jadrone to Harry, he hadn’t expected her to practically run out the door the minute he’d left her office. “Any reports of trouble in that area?”
“None, sir.”
No reports of trouble, no indication that Sam herself was in trouble. So why was he so certain that she was? “Christine, send someone to collect my car. I’m heading out to join Agent Ryan.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the connection broke, he walked outside and called to his alternate shape. Power surged, burning through his body, snatching away sensation and pain as every nerve ending shuddered, twisted, to find new form. Then the sensation died, and an odd sense of emptiness followed. A heartbeat later, he was a hawk soaring skyward, heading toward the city.
—
Smoke tickled Sam’s throat, making her cough. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry, empty of saliva. Her throat
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