Krewe of Hunters 3 Sacred Evil by Heather Graham Page B

be capable of driving when everyone seemed to think that they belonged in every lane, when the streets stopped up and people were everywhere.
    “I suppose someone, somewhere, misses them. But you’d be amazed by the amount of people who really don’t seem to belong anywhere,” he said.
    “I understand your partner is in the hospital,” Whitney said softly, realizing she was probably treading on dangerous ground.
    “He was shot. Mainly because people who don’t know what they’re doing need to stay out of police business.”
    “But he’s going to make it,” Whitney said.
    He gazed at her then. His eyes could be as cold as jagged gray ice. “Yeah, he’s going to live. Whether he’ll ever walk again or not, I don’t know.”
    “Medicine has come far. I’m sure he has the best doctors in the world.”
    He didn’t reply. They drove in silence, except when he cursed beneath his breath at the other drivers on the road.
    He glanced over at her as they moved south. “Have you been to New York before?” he asked, as if remembering that he had another person in his car.
    “Film school,” she said.
    That drew a frown. “You are here now, with me, but you went to film school? ”
    “Yes.”
    “But now you’re an agent.”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t you usually work with film, then? Surveillance systems, that kind of work?”
    “Sometimes. In many ways, I still work with film. We’re a specialized unit, working with bizarre situations. But you know that. You’ve had someone look up information about the team.”
    He ignored that. “This is homicide. And, sadly, homicide is horrible, but not—ghostly.”
    “And you don’t think it was a bizarre homicide?”
    She had him there, and he knew it. He didn’t reply. She knew he wasn’t happy that his partner was in the hospital, and he was working with a girl who looked as if she might have only just gotten her degree—in film. He wasn’t pleased.
    Crosby seemed to have a talent for parking in New York City—of course, he drove an unmarked car and didn’t have to worry much about parking tickets. Still, he seemed to be able to find the only street parking on Broadway, and they were quickly walking down the major street, weaving their way through the mass of humanity.
    Crime tape was gone; a woman had been murdered, and speculation was on everyone’s lips—but Broadway could only be stopped so long.
    Jude knew where he was going; they walked to the subway.
    His pace decelerated as they reached the entrance. “Captain Tyler!” he said politely.
    Whitney looked around Jude’s imposing form and saw that there was a man sitting by the entrance. He was wearing a worn peacoat, denim jeans and a cap. He had nice gray eyes—that appeared as if they had known much better days.
    “Yes?” the man said. He heaved a sigh and stood up. It seemed that he did so because he had been addressed by name, and standing was the proper thing to do. “Do I know you?” he asked Jude. “Can I help you in some way?”
    “Sir, you can help me, yes. I’d like very much to bother you for some of your time. I’m a detective with the police, and—”
    “The murder,” Captain Tyler said. He nodded. It appeared that his thinking was clear; he didn’t seem to have been drinking, nor did he have bloodshot or dilated eyes that would indicate he was taking drugs.
    “Yes,” Jude said.
    “I saw her,” Captain Tyler said, staring at Jude, then noting Whitney and looking at her, his smile becoming a gentle one. “Ma’am,” he said, touching his cap. “Yes, I saw the young woman last night. She was not very nice.”
    Whitney frowned; she desperately didn’t want this man to be the murderer. She didn’t know him, of course. He smelled like the street, but that didn’t matter. But there was something about his gray eyes and grizzled face that seemed to speak of dignity beyond misfortune.
    “Captain Tyler? You’re certain you saw the woman who was killed?” Jude asked.
    “Oh,