Blood Score (21 page)

Wearing only gym shorts, he bound his hands in elastic wrap, donned boxing gloves, and got to work. In no time he shifted into high gear and battered the bag in blinding succession, side-stepping and circling it with each driving blow. The muscles in his legs burned, and his fists ached with every jab, but nothing would free his mind of Angel’s dark soulful eyes.

Stay focused and keep moving. Use the pain.

He grunted with each hard blow. His gloved punches had a rhythm that intensified. When he picked up his pace, he circled the bag and focused his whole body on every blow. His lungs were heaving and sweat trailed off his arms and back. He switched up the speed and varied his combination punches—left jab, straight right, left hook. Cronan had hit the zone physically, but he was still haunted by his partner, Angel. The subtle perfume she wore, the gentle curve of her back, the lips he always wanted to taste. These were the things he couldn’t block no matter how hard he worked out.

He finally stopped when he couldn’t hold his arms up anymore. Exhausted, he stripped off his gloves and unwound the elastic wrap from his hands. Before he cleaned up, he caught a glimpse of Jack. The yellow tabby sprawled on his floor belly up, staring at him in a squint and purring like a jet engine. Cronan shook his head and grinned.

“
Not all of us have…luck with the l-ladies, like you do, Jack,” he panted. “Some of us…have to work hard…to look half as good as you.”

When Jack chose that moment to lick his junk, Cronan rolled his eyes and left him to it. He turned on his shower and let the water get hot. Billows of steam filled the small space as he cut through the humidity and stepped naked into the stall. With a gasp, he let the hot stream trail down his neck and shoulders. He hoped the pain of an exhausting workout and the torture of hot water would be enough of a distraction, but it wasn’t.

Nothing would free his mind. Even with his eyes closed, all he saw was Angel. She was all he
wanted
to see.

Simone Moreau had tempted him in the past, before he knew Angel, but something about the French woman had kept him from her bed, even after the case with her sister had been closed. After seeing Simone recently, there were nights he’d dreamed of her in strange suggestive ways. His fantasies might start with Simone—a woman who wouldn’t expect anything from him except his body—but his erotic imaginings would always end with Angel in his arms.

When he reached for the gel wash, he slathered it onto his skin as he pictured Angel. In a familiar fantasy, he closed his eyes and imagined her stepping into the shower with him. They wouldn’t talk. She would look at him with those eyes, hungry for the same thing he wanted.

***

In his fantasy, Cronan pulled Angel’s warm naked body into his and caressed her under the steamy, wet heat. His hands buttered her breasts with citrus scented soap as he kissed her neck from behind her. When Angel leaned into him, he felt his penis stiffen. He slipped his soapy fingers between her legs and pressed her perfect soft curves against him.

“
I want you inside me.”

Her throaty whisper echoed in his shower stall and would haunt his mind afterward. When she turned toward him, the feeling of her hard nipples pressed against his body sent a rush through him.
As her hand slid over his engorged cock, her fingers grasped him and ran the length of his flesh, working him into a fevered pitch.

“
Oh, yeah,” he said. “Angel.” He loved saying her name in a whisper meant for only her.

With his fingers covered in lather, Cronan mimicked the velvet touch of her hand on his penis, but even in his fantasies, he refused to finish until he pictured her in the throes of orgasm. He slid his hand between her legs and brought her pleasure until her body shuddered, wave after wave. The sounds of her growing need came in urgent panting that grew louder than the pounding water.

When he plunged his tongue into her mouth, Angel writhed against him until he reached down and hoisted her up with both hands. She wrapped her legs around his hips, still kissing him as he pressed her back into the tiles to hold her. He pushed his rigid cock into her and mounted her with a thrust that filled her.

“
Yes, yes,” she cried as he shoved into her.

Cronan felt every driving inch as he pumped harder and faster until hot semen shot from his body and spewed over his fingers in waves. He cried out, and his whole body convulsed in spurts. With the heat of the water, he saw stars as every muscle let go.

***

The release sobered him up. When he opened his eyes, Cronan looked down and took in what he’d done as Angel’s sweet face vanished in the steam.

He had it bad for his partner.
Real bad
.

***

Downtown Chicago

11:20 PM

Cronan knew sleep would be impossible. Between his thing for Angel and his restless mind, he chased theories for the real reason behind McFarland becoming a player in the Davenport case. After his shower, he got dressed in jeans, boots, and a blue chambray shirt that he left tail-out so he could hide his Glock 21 at the small of his back in a leather belt holster. When he hit his kitchen, he fixed a quick pasta stir fry and cooled a few pieces for Jack to eat as a peace offering.

His furry roommate would not take his leaving well.

Jack liked to sleep at the foot of his bed, curled into a ball of yellow fur. The stray had his rituals and hated when Cronan didn’t abide by the rules of a proper bedtime. The cat stared down at him from the elevated loft of his bedroom as he grabbed his keys. Jack mewled in a long raspy whine.

“We’re not married, Jack. Get over it,” he said. But before he headed out the door, he added, “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

That satisfied Jack. He turned, flipped his tail up, and flashed his butt. Cronan wished all his relationships would be that clear cut.

During his drive downtown to revisit the crime scene, he visualized what he remembered about McFarland’s place to get his head in the game. Earlier, he’d called ahead to let building management know to expect him. He flashed his badge at the door when the manager let him in.

“
Please let me know when you leave. I’ll have to let you out and secure the door again,” the man said as he handed him a card with his direct number on it. “Call this number. I’ll stay for as long as you need me.”

“
Sure thing.” Cronan said. “By the way, can residents come and go after hours? Or do they need someone to let them in after the doors are locked for the night?”

“
They come and go as they please.” The guy explained how residents used their keys to access doors in and out of the building. “We don’t have a curfew like some frat house. Privacy is important here. I’m sure you understand.”

“
Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Yeah, Cronan
did
understand. The manager’s answer meant that if McFarland was murdered, and the killer staged the scene to look like a suicide, whoever did it had to be either a resident or know the ins and outs of the building as if they lived here. Cronan chewed on that as he hit the elevators and punched the floor number.

When he got to McFarland’s suite, he saw that yellow and black crime scene tape sealed the front door as a warning, so no one unauthorized would enter. It was still an active crime scene until investigators were done. Cronan had to cut the tape to enter, using a folded knife he’d brought with him, stuffed into the pocket of his jeans. When he got inside, he flipped on the light switch to the living room and looked over the mess that the crime scene techs had left in their wake. Anything of significance would’ve been taken with them as evidence, but he’d come to see if they’d missed something.

After he took a quick look around, he found a desk that McFarland might’ve used to pay bills and rummaged through it. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he would know it when he saw it. The man’s credit card statements didn’t show any obvious signs that McFarland had paid for a membership to Simone’s private club or even ate meals or paid for gas near the place. To keep memberships and patronage confidential, he knew Simone used the corporate billing name of ‘
The Uncommon Jungle
’ to ID her unique “services” without giving away the true nature of her business. Cronan knew what to look for, but nothing in McFarland’s bills sent up an alarm flare until he found a property tax statement.

From correspondence with a legal firm, it seemed that Tim McFarland had inherited lakefront property on Lake Zurich from a deceased grandmother. A background check might have missed the property ownership since it took time for a change in title to show. He made a note of the address.

After he did a thorough search of the rest of the premises, Cronan found nothing else to flag as important. That left McFarland’s private room to go over again. It made sense that if he had secrets, they would be locked away in a space he’d designed for such a thing, so the rest of his life could look squeaky clean.

Schumacher and O’Brien had been thorough. He knew digital photos had been taken of the room layout. They’d dusted for fingerprints, and bagged the broken liquor bottle and the gift box as evidence, among other things, but Cronan had come for another reason. He came looking for something his team might’ve missed. He moved around the room and looked at it from odd angles, imagining what McFarland did in the room.

That’s when he noticed the marks.

The carpet showed well-worn indentations that seemed odd. The marks on the floor were too close to the TV screen for movie watching. McFarland had a sofa in the room that would’ve made a better spot for viewing. The indentations in the rug made Cronan curious. The man had a better TV in his main living room. Why spend so much time in this small cramped space that he had to leave carpet impressions this close to the screen?

When Cronan found a chair that matched the indentations, he placed the seat where McFarland had it and sat. That put him squarely in front of the TV screen that must’ve hit the man at eye level.

“
Weird, dude,” he muttered. “For guys, TVs are like dicks. There’s no such thing as too big. Why go with this cheap ass television?”

Seated where McFarland had been gave Cronan a new perspective. He shifted his eyes around the room and focused on areas within arm’s reach. He knocked on the walls and shelves behind the TV and heard nothing but a solid thud until one spot sounded hollow. Cronan stood and looked closer. When he leaned and put an ear to the wall, he heard a very faint hum. That could’ve been utilities, but Cronan pushed and prodded the spot until it opened.

Inside, the hum got louder, and he saw a steady red light and electrical wires that led to something he recognized—
surveillance gear
.

“
Damn.”

Cronan checked out the equipment and connected it to McFarland’s TV, to see how the set up worked. Several smaller screens, with channel numbers to identify the feeds, split and filled the TV. With a mouse stashed inside the wall compartment, any of the channels could be enlarged to fill the screen. Cronan looked for clues in the background to indicate who and what McFarland had targeted. Most of the feeds were dedicated to Chandler’s private home. He recognized the musician’s sound proof recording studio with its distinctive blood red designer sofa and the decor, but when he noticed a camera in the shower and bedroom, Cronan didn’t have to guess whose privacy McFarland had invaded.

One video recording had been saved of Ethan showering. The date stamp had been the night Olivia Davenport had been murdered.

“
You sorry son of a bitch.”

Not all surveillance had been of Ethan Chandler. Two channels were of other young men that Cronan saw moving in their homes. The interiors in the background looked to be from this building. He recognized the window views in one and decorator finishes in the other, although he couldn’t be sure what floor these men lived on. Apparently McFarland had stalked other young guys, but Ethan had been his obsession, given the number of camera channels dedicated to the musician.

Even in his most secret space, McFarland had concealed his illegal activities enough that the evidence techs had missed it.

“
Did you take video souvenirs?”

If McFarland had one recording, Cronan knew there would be more, but where were they? A stalker like McFarland, who collected memorabilia on his victim, wouldn’t settle for the instantaneous gratification of a live feed or only one recording when he could record and savor his intrusion over and over. He pictured McFarland having a front row seat for his five-on-one spankfest. When Cronan realized the purpose of the seat too close to the TV, he winced and stood as if he’d been shot from a cannon. All he wanted to do was shower again…and Angel would have nothing to do with his ‘need for clean’ this time.

“Sick bastard.”

If McFarland had gone to the trouble of hiding his illegal surveillance system, Cronan had no doubt that any recordings would have been hidden with the same care. A search of McFarland’s lake house shot to the top of his priority list. What had the guy recorded…and would any of it shed light on who killed Olivia? Had McFarland tried to blackmail Chandler? Is that what put him on the killer’s radar? Unless he found the digitals to back up his theory, he had nothing more than conjecture.