Blood Score Part 7

"Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned," she muttered. "Miss high society got tempted by the dark side of the Force."

"And check out the st.u.r.dy metal hooks positioned around the room, in odd places. They don't look like plant holders." He pointed to the closest hook and a few others. "I don't want to know what that one over her bed was used for."

"Oh, come on, Gabe. Of course you want to know."

"Okay...you got me." He glanced at her sideways.

"Do you think she was the one cracking the whip or the submissive?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say she liked being in charge, but..." He shrugged.

"But what?"

"This is all pretty d.a.m.ning stuff, on the surface," he said. "Kinky s.e.x points to a dangerous lifestyle, but she probably kept her second life secret from her friends. We may have to go directly to the players to see what she was up to. Something here could lead us to motive, but this crowd relies on discretion. They don't talk much."

"Yeah, and in Chicago, who knows where she might have gone?"

"Someone like Olivia would have fewer options if she wanted to be discreet. There are places a person like her could go. I can check with some of my sources."

"You have sources in the rough s.e.x trade?"

Cronan shrugged, but didn't answer. He had something else on his mind.

"But this doesn't feel right, Angel." He walked around the room and picked up a photo of her smiling father off the dresser and showed it to his partner. "'Cause I can't see her donning leather with daddy watching."

"Now that you mention it, that does appear a little bent and twisted, but isn't that the whole point?"

"Just hear me out. This girl had been tied to daddy's purse strings her whole life. If she'd wanted to rebel, she could have found other ways to do that. This feels...secret. If she'd intended to make a point with daddy, she would've done it in other ways, too. Don't you think?" He didn't wait for her answer. "A woman like this has got to have a maid service. It doesn't feel right that she'd leave a suitcase under her bed where any nosey maid could've found it." He leaned against the dresser, set down the photo, and crossed his arms.

"Yeah, but those scratches on her headboard," Angel said, "and the metal hooks positioned around the room. They're worn, and they don't seem haphazard to me. None of it goes with this pricey decor. A woman as meticulous as Olivia Davenport, she wouldn't have settled for anything less than perfection when it came to decorating her place...unless the hooks served a purpose that was more important than a seal of approval from House Beautiful."

After his partner made her point, she added, "I can see keeping an open mind, Gabe. But sometimes you gotta take a strap-on d.i.l.d.o at face value."

"Thanks for that image." He nodded. "'Preciate it."

"Anytime." She smiled.

"The techs will inspect this gear for DNA, epithelial cells, and fingerprints, but that will take time. My gut tells me this is wrong. It's a smoke screen. A diversion."

"Then let's keeping digging. We'll follow the evidence. Isn't that what you always tell me?"

"Yeah, guess so."

Gabe looked perplexed by what they'd found, and she saw his mind working the case on his own. Despite her encouraging words to him about sticking to the evidence, Angel had a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. After seeing the bondage gear, she didn't want to think about Ethan being involved in Olivia's dark secret. Yet she couldn't get images of him out of her head. In truth she could easily picture him being the submissive to a dominant lover's obsession, but was he capable of playing a more forceful role? Either way, it scared her to think of him leading a deviant lifestyle, no matter who cracked the whip.

Why had she agreed to meet him?

She'd lied to Gabe. Well, not exactly lied, but she sure hadn't been up front about her phone call from Ethan. Even now, she knew she wouldn't tell her partner. Something had driven her to keep her rendezvous with the violinist private, and she couldn't help but wonder.

Was that how Olivia's secret life had started?

Hours Later After Angel told him she had something personal to do, Cronan didn't put up a fuss when she said she'd see him at the station in the morning. He had his own private matter to take care of-to further the investigation into Olivia Davenport's murder-and he'd chosen not to involve his partner.

Where he had to go, Cronan didn't want Angel with him.

He needed to shower and change clothes before he hit the street again, but he had another reason to make a side trip to his place. Jack would be waiting for him. With the sun down, he pulled his vehicle up to his front door in a compound that was locked and secured by a heavy-duty steel gate that closed behind him on remote. No one from the street could see past the gate to know anyone lived behind it.

He unlocked his front door and flicked on the lights. A pale yellow glow came off the industrial fixtures overhead. His place was nothing more than a converted warehouse on the fringe of downtown Chicago. He had no neighbors and got his mail from a post office box near the station house. Although his living arrangement had a stark empty feel-without even a remote resemblance to a conventional home-it suited him. He could pick up and go without looking back. Nothing bound him to the place.

His living quarters said more about his life than a thousand words.

The wide-open s.p.a.ce was defined by brick walls, exposed pipes, and air ducts with sheets of corrugated metal streaked by rust for ambience. He had his utilities, a simple kitchen and bathroom, and a loft bedroom elevated on steel girders and accessible by a metal stairway. His place had function, with wooden crates and mismatched furniture he'd acc.u.mulated over the years.

It contained nothing personal.

After his parents had been killed, he'd become detached by choice. He figured if he didn't care about anything, he wouldn't have much to lose. His life had been set adrift to float wherever the current would take him, an aimless existence that gave him no sense of belonging anywhere.

The foster care system had taught him a bare bones way of living, inst.i.tutional-style, where a garbage bag contained the whole of a child's possessions. With the exception of his friends.h.i.+p with Manny, he'd never gotten too attached to anything or anyone. He'd never placed much value on material things and hadn't bought much new, even when he could afford it. Cronan paid his bills and focused on his work. That was it. He knew people, but he had few acquaintances that he could call real friends, especially after Manny died. Angel was the only fragile link he had to a best friend he could never replace.

Besides Angel and his work, nothing else mattered to him-except for One-eyed Jack.

The battle-scarred old yellow tabby was a twenty-pound bruiser with only one good eye. Two years ago, a week after Manny died, the cat had crawled through an open window and adopted him. Cronan had no idea why Jack claimed such a messed up human being, but he'd never questioned the cat's marginal taste in roommates.

Jack had come to stay and from that day forward, Cronan had a reason to come home.

At first he'd wondered what it said about him that the only commitment he'd made to another living soul was to take in a scarred old tomcat, but that wasn't even close to the truth. In reality, the stray had picked him, not the other way around. Jack had been the mature one in their relations.h.i.+p.

Only minutes after unlocking his front door, Gabe looked down to see One-eyed Jack rubbing against his leg with his tail up. His purr sounded like an old diesel engine.

"Hey, buddy. How was your day?"

He flicked on the fluorescent light in his makes.h.i.+ft kitchen, shrugged out of his holster and emptied his pockets on the counter.

"You hungry?"

As usual, Jack looked at him with one good eye and yammered about his misadventures, mewling non-stop in cat speak. There were days when Cronan thought he understood Jack, like today. Jack usually waited for him to open a tin of cat food and serve the treat on a paper plate. They'd both eat with Cronan standing over his kitchen sink and Jack chowing down on the kitchen counter.

Today Jack surprised him.

The yellow tabby didn't wait for his dinner. The cat lumbered across the concrete warehouse floor toward a spiral metal stair, an emergency fire exit that led up to a high louvered window Jack used to come and go. In the shadows beneath the stairs, Cronan saw a dark shape on his floor, barely visible under the light. He had to step closer and kneel down for a better look.

Jack had brought him a dead mouse.

"I appreciate you sharing your mouse, pal." He winced. "But next time, could you make it a whole one?"

Downtown Chicago a Bogart's Bistro & Wine Bar Angel had never been to Bogart's, but the wine bar had a solid reputation with its upscale American cuisine. The decor was a nostalgic tribute to Humphrey Bogart with striking black and white prints of the actor adorning the walls and piano music playing in the background. A single red rose had been placed in a crystal vase, set atop every white linen tablecloth. Under the flickering warmth of candlelight, each table made Bogart's a discreet place to have a quiet conversation.

Angel checked her watch and noticed she was five minutes late as she walked up to the blonde hostess behind a podium.

"I'm supposed to meet someone." She looked into the bar, past the young woman's shoulder. "Never mind. I see him. Thanks."

Ethan sat in a corner of the bar. He stared straight ahead, rigid in his chair with his hands clasped in front of him, his white cane folded on the table next to a gla.s.s of red wine and a bottle. She took a deep breath and headed for his table. When she got close enough to say h.e.l.lo, he surprised her by standing before she spoke.

"I'm glad you could come." He held out his hand.

"How did you know I was here?" She put her hand in his. "I hadn't said anything."

When he smiled, she had to catch her breath. She had no idea perfection could be improved upon.

"Your perfume. I remembered it from before." He let go of her hand and offered her a seat. "Please, join me. Can I get you something to drink? Or would you like to share the bottle of Merlot that I've started?"

"Actually, the Merlot sounds good." Even though she'd asked for a gla.s.s of wine, Angel would sip it slow. She didn't need the distraction of an alcohol buzz. Being in Ethan's company would be diversion enough.

"When you called, it sounded as if you had something urgent to tell me, Mr. Chandler."

He smiled. "Direct and to the point. I like that, but please call me Ethan."

After the waitress came with a gla.s.s and poured Angel's wine, Ethan ordered a small sampler of appetizers, and they had their privacy again.

"I wanted to talk to you privately. What I have to say will be hard enough to talk about." He sighed. "Your partner didn't appear to be a very tolerant man."

Tolerant? Gabe was one of the most laid back guys she'd ever met, but his sarcastic wit and outspoken ways tended to leave people with the impression that he was judgmental and opinionated.

"I understand. Is this about your relations.h.i.+p with Olivia? Do you have any theories on why she was murdered? Or by whom?"

"I'm not sure about a theory. I certainly don't have anyone to add to your suspect list, but I thought you should know that Olivia had a darker side to her nature. She's not the type of woman anyone should take at face value. Perhaps the years of being a young girl growing up on those hunting trips with her father, she experienced life in a way most girls would not. Maybe that had something to do with the way she turned out."

"And what way was that...exactly?"

"Olivia had...certain appet.i.tes in bed. I'd never met anyone like her. She took what she wanted and was very...aggressive." He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable for the first time since she'd sat down. "Being with Olivia was addictive, even when it wasn't in my best interest. I'm not sure what that says about me, but I thought it might be important for you to know."

"When you say she was aggressive, what do you mean by that?" She lowered her voice and leaned toward him.

It was clear by the look on his face that Ethan felt uncomfortable talking about their personal s.e.x life, but Angel knew there was much more to Olivia's life than being the daughter of a prominent family.

"She liked...props. And she enjoyed playing dark s.e.xual fantasy games." He cleared his throat. "I don't really want to go into it here. Can we talk about something else?"

If they had been at the police station, she wouldn't have cut him slack, but he did have a point. And his cooperation would dry up if she pressed him for more. A change in subject was in order.

"We found a photo of you and Olivia at her place. She was wearing a black dress, and you were holding your violin. Do you remember the event?" Angel wanted to kick herself for describing Olivia's dress like he would recall it.

He shrugged and said, "I'm not sure I can name the event. We've attended a few, between her charity functions and my performances. Sorry."

"It just looked as if Olivia knew the person who'd taken the photo. We were interested in getting the name of the photographer."

"That might be easier. It was probably Bryce Peterson. If it was an event where I played, Bryce would have been with us and he often brought his camera. He's an old friend from my Juilliard days."

Angel recognized the name of the man with the angry voice who had left a message on Olivia's answering machine.

"Does he live in Chicago?"

"Yes, he does." He gave her an address, and she wrote it down on a small pad of paper she carried in her purse. "I'm helping him until he gets on his feet again. I own the place where he's living. It was rental property before Bryce moved in. He's had it rough over the last few years and needed my help. He's a violinist like me."

Not like you, she wanted to correct him, but she let him finish.

"He's been in and out of rehab. The music G.o.ds have not been kind to him, but he's been sober for nearly a year now. I hope the worst is behind him."

"Did Bryce get along with Olivia?"

Ethan hesitated and didn't answer her question right away. Eventually he asked one of his own.

"Why are you asking about Bryce?"

"We need to find people who knew Olivia, that's all," she insisted. "So did they get along, Bryce and Olivia?"

"They had their good days and bad, like most people. But after a while, they kept their differences from me. They knew it upset me to hear them argue."

"What did they argue about?"

"Bryce wouldn't have hurt Olivia. He knew how much she meant to me."

"And you consider Bryce a good friend, someone you trust, right?"

"Yes, implicitly. Now what's this about?" he demanded.

Angel heard the tension in his voice and saw it in his eyes. She had to remember that they were in a bar, not the police station. If she wanted his continued cooperation, she'd have to dial it back and play it smarter.

"During an investigation of this nature, we have to ask a lot of questions. Not all of them will be easy to hear and not all of them will apply to Olivia, but to find out who did this, we have to ask the tough questions."

He sat back, considering what she had said. "I understand. Please, go on."

Angel had been sidestepping the question of Olivia being faithful, but now she had to take her own advice and ask the tough question.

"Have you ever suspected Olivia of cheating on you?"

Ethan took in a deep breath and slumped back in his seat with his eyes shut. He sat for a long while, not saying a word. Angel didn't press him. She knew he would answer when he was ready. Eventually, he did.

"Yes, I had my suspicions."

Outside Chicago Cronan drove his Crown Vic down a dark stretch of road with the dim lights from his dashboard and the moonlight overhead coloring his world. His high beams caught the shadows of tall gra.s.ses whipping in the wake of his vehicle as he drove past undeveloped acreage. The lights off the interstate were only a memory.

In the distance, he saw what he looked for.