No One Left to Tell by Jordan Dane Page A

play devil's advocate, partner, but the priest didn't exactly get a good look at him." Looking back over her shoulder, she turned toward the breezeway windows to the right. "Not from this distance—and in the dark with snow falling? He won't make a credible witness."
    "Maybe we just see what Delacorte says about it. We'll get a shot at him this afternoon at three. We pretend to catch him up on the case, then turn it into a subtle interrogation. You up for the challenge of one-on-one with Mr. Freeze?"
    "I don't want to hog all the fun. Why one-on-one?"
    "Just seeing the way you got to him at the Dunhills'. If anyone can get Delacorte to talk, it'll be you." With caution in his voice, he added, "Be careful with this guy. If he's dirty and you push the wrong button, he could be real dangerous. But I'll be in the next room, watching his every move."
    Raven wasn't sure if Tony didn't have that backward. Christian Delacorte slipped his way under her skin without effort. She would've preferred to pass on round two with him, especially with her shrewd partner watching behind a two-way mirror.
    "Not sure I agree with your take on it. But if we're gonna do this thing, we'd better run a background check on Delacorte. I gotta have more ammunition on this guy."
    "Agreed," he replied. Her partner turned to head back to the car, then glanced over his shoulder. "Let's get out of here. Place gives me the creeps." He wandered away, muttering, "Which is ironic considering what I do."
    But Raven found herself rooted at the grave, wondering what drew Delacorte back here, time after time. Images of her father's funeral flashed in her mind. Even though he'd been taken from her by an act of violence, she hadn't witnessed his death. Her memories were grounded by a father's love. Yet in contrast, what monsters lurked in Delacorte's past? Only a young boy, he'd seen everything, according to the newspapers. She couldn't imagine such horror. Some of the articles in the priest's file alluded to a bungled police raid by crooked cops. Nothing proven.
    She now understood Christian's resentment toward law enforcement—even if it did hit close to home. And to compound the outrage, his desire for retribution couldn't be directed at anyone in particular. Charges were never filed. She had no doubt he believed a massive cover-up had robbed him of justice. No wonder he bristled with hostility to the badge.
    Despite feeling a connection to this man, she had to remain objective in her investigation. If he had killed Mickey Blair for a reason they'd yet to uncover, she must be able to see it and act upon the evidence. Her sense of duty bound her to that pledge.
    But something gnawed at her gut. Nothing about this case looked simple. And with Christian Delacorte involved, she had the feeling things were going to get complicated.
    The smell of fast food came from her wastepaper basket, providing a necessary alternative to the ever-present odors of cigarette smoke and stale afternoon coffee that permeated the bullpen of desks across the homicide department. Someone had left a nearly empty coffeepot on the burner. The stench lingered heavy in the air, challenging her ability to block it out.
    Reading over the file on Delacorte, she was lulled by the usual background noise. Ringing phones, the never-ending sounds a metal desk makes, and idle sports diatribes in low male voices. From various searches, she uncovered that Delacorte had graduated with honors from the business school of the University of Chicago with an MBA and a minor in computer sciences. He had also received training from the FBI SWAT school in Denver and had achieved expertise in hand-to-hand combat, handguns, executive protection, and high-speed driving—all the credentials of a security specialist.
    But his unique training method in the dark seemed highly unusual, almost a personal fixation. Raven made a note in the margin of a page. The thought steeped in her brain as she tapped the eraser of her