Captive Spirit (25 page)

“You already know I didn’t profit from my wife’s death,” he said by way of introducing himself as he took the seat next to Dio, disregarding the digital tape recorder like he really didn’t care if it captured every word he said. He rested his hands beside it, easily avoiding the microphone area. “The NYPD has our financial records—most of what Katrina had went to her charitable foundation.”

Duncan opened the folder he had taken from Blackmore and placed on the table in front of him, and he glanced at the page on top. “In your first interview, you told the investigators that you and Mrs. Drake never mingled your finances.”

“That’s right.” Drake’s energy matched his words exactly, as far as Bela could tell, and like Alsace, he showed no evidence of elemental talent. “We kept our business interests separate from the outset, since we both came to the marriage with means.”

Blackmore took the hard-ass role this time, sounding gruff. “Bet you resented her routing her wealth to that foundation.”

“I expected her to do just that, Captain Blackmore.” Drake’s tone got chilly at the challenge. “We weren’t selfish robber barons. Katrina and I understood that we had enough money, and we agreed to give the rest back to society. My will is structured similarly, providing for my son, Walker, but splitting the bulk of the proceeds between my business and the United Way.”

Still no hint of elemental energy.

When Bela stole a glance at Duncan, she noticed that his eyes had gone black again, with gray at the centers.

Dio’s wind energy stirred the air in the room, and she asked, “Did you attend church with your wife, Mr. Drake?”

Drake turned his focus to her, and his expression communicated both surprise and offense. “Excuse me?”

“Your religious preferences, sir.” Dio kept her tone respectful, but she pushed ahead. “Could you tell us about them?”

Drake gave Reese Patterson a look. The attorney scooted his fingers on the table in a go-ahead motion.

Drake sighed. “I’m not religious. That wasn’t something I shared with Katrina.”

Bela went after the bottom line. “Have you had any experience with the occult or people who claim to dabble in the supernatural?”

“No. I’m an accountant.” Drake looked at Bela like she’d lost her mind. “I put my trust in numbers, computers, and reality. What makes you think Katrina’s murder had anything to do with the occult?”

“What do you think motivated the killer?” Duncan asked.

Jeremiah Drake went pale, and his emotions surged across Bela’s earth-enhanced awareness. Normal human emotions, no elemental enhancements. “I have no idea what would drive a maniac to do—to do
that
to anyone, Detective.”

Duncan paused for a moment, then went back to the file he had opened. “You told the initial investigators that Katrina didn’t mention feeling threatened or concerned about her safety. You said you didn’t know she had hired a professional bodyguard to look after her.”

“John Cole. That was his name, right?” Drake raised his fingers to his chest in a quick, almost unconscious movement before putting his hand back on the table. “The man who wore the gold coin around his neck. He was killed in DUMBO the same night Katrina died.”

Duncan gave no response except to keep looking at Drake, encouraging him by not interrupting him. Bela’s eyes rested on Duncan’s shirt, where she could see the outline of the dinar underneath it, but Drake didn’t seem to notice.

“I met John Cole once,” Drake said, “but I thought he was just looking after her at the event she was chairing that night, because of the neighborhood. Do you think he was pursuing the killers?”

“We’re pretty sure of that, yes.” Blackmore was looking at Duncan’s shirt, too, but he seemed to realize that and he stopped.

“Poor man.” Drake sounded like he meant it. “I don’t know why Katrina didn’t tell me she thought she was in danger. We were divorcing, but we were still friends. I would have stayed with her. I would have helped her.”

Duncan closed his folder. “Any idea what would scare a woman with firm Christian beliefs badly enough to answer an ad for a bodyguard who specialized in paranormal threats?”

“Paranormal—that’s what Cole was advertising?” Genuine surprise from Drake. Still no elemental energy. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I know you’ve been asked this question before,” Blackmore said, “but Mr. Drake, can you think of anyone who had a grudge against Katrina? Anyone who would benefit from her death?”

At this, Drake’s demeanor changed again.

It was subtle, but enough to make Bela’s instincts jangle like Sibyl wind chimes. Dio lifted her chin, obviously picking up the same abnormal tension Bela sensed.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there.” Drake’s hands almost curled into fists on the table, but he relaxed them just as fast. “My wife had no enemies.”

Lie
, Bela thought, her pulse picking up.

Jeremiah Drake did know someone who might have wanted to hurt Katrina, but he clearly didn’t want to share that information.

Why?

Duncan chased around the financial issues and divorce proceedings for another half hour, but they didn’t make much progress. Drake didn’t have any more strong reactions, and he never showed a flicker of elemental power.

This time, when Duncan saw Drake and Reese Patterson out of the Police Annex, Dio cut loose with a yawn. “I’m so glad we don’t have to do
this
for a living.”

Blackmore packed up his folders and digital recorder without responding to her offhand insult, and Bela decided to make her exit. If the two of them decided to spar, she didn’t want to get caught in all the yelling and tornados.

When Bela came out of the interrogation room, Jeremiah Drake was standing next to a teenage boy, talking on a cell phone about a stock transaction. He had a finger in his free ear and a tense expression. The boy, who looked to be sixteen or seventeen, seemed unfazed by Drake’s mounting tension, and Bela assumed this would be Walker Drake, Jeremiah’s son by a previous marriage. The stepson who’d made Katrina’s life miserable.

Walker looked like a younger version of his father—same dark hair and handsome features, but without the calm, dignified bearing. The kid’s face was a study in barely controlled insolence. The navy jacket, striped tie, and khaki slacks he was wearing suggested one of Manhattan’s higher-end private academies, and the golden emblem stitched across the jacket pocket confirmed this. Walker was wearing his collar open, and the tie had been loosened to hang low on his chest. The look and sarcastic smile he gave Bela made her want to slap him hard enough to spin his head around—and cover up her boobs.

Little shit
.

She gave Walker a quick once-over with her elemental power, and as John Cole had insisted in his conversation through Camille, the boy had no traces of elemental energy or power. The OCU could jump through all the hoops required to get permission to question a minor—if they could pull it off, given that medical reports confirmed that Walker and his girlfriend had been basically unconscious from a long night and day of partying when Katrina was killed—but it probably wouldn’t be worth the effort. The OCU’s forensic accountants had already confirmed that Walker didn’t have large sums of money available to hire the Rakshasa, and he hadn’t made anything other than penny-ante transactions leading up to the killing, or after.

A few moments later, Walker followed his father out of the annex, and Bela wasn’t sorry to see him go.

As the double doors to the annex closed, Bela turned her attention to Duncan, who was speaking to Reese Patterson in low tones a few feet away from the entrance. The lawyer appeared to be trying to convince Duncan of something, but Duncan wasn’t buying it.

When Patterson saw Bela coming, he gave up his campaign and offered Bela his hand. She shook it as he asked, “Will I be seeing you again?”

“Probably.” She smiled at him. He really was likeable, his fetish for Dio and hot blondes aside.

“I’ll look forward to it.” Patterson grinned, then made his way through the doors.

Bela watched him go.

When the doors closed and caught, she took Duncan’s hand, way past needing a little contact with him. “What did Patterson want from you?”

Duncan kissed her wrist, then picked up her other hand and did the same. He lowered his arms, keeping a firm grip on her fingers. “He wants me to go see John’s will, even though he doesn’t think it’ll help the case.”

Bela glanced toward the closed doors, where Patterson had been. “That’s … strange. What does John want you to do? What’s he saying?”

“Not a damned thing. He ran his mouth the entire time we were in session, telling me that Alsace and Drake are a total waste of time, and we were screwing up by pursuing either of them.” Duncan let go of her hands. “But about the will, I’ve got nothing. Just silence. I think maybe he’s embarrassed, but I don’t know why.”

Dio came out of the interrogation room just ahead of Blackmore. She held him up by stretching, then headed to Bela and Duncan, a few paces ahead of Blackmore. “Drake got bothered when we asked him about Katrina’s enemies. What do you think that was about, Sharp?”

Blackmore was the one who answered when he joined them, carrying a battered leather briefcase. “No idea, unless he was thinking about how his brat kid fought with her. It’s not enough to go on to poke around any deeper, at least on an official level.”

His look was meaningful, but Bela and Dio were way ahead of him.

Bela already had the annex doors open, and they headed out with Duncan in tow, ready to do some more investigating—Sibyl style.

(25)

Exhausted and disappointed.

That about summed up the look on Bela’s face when they got back to the brownstone around three that afternoon. Duncan hated seeing that, but all he could do was hold her hand as Dio unlocked the front door, used her wind to blow it open, and stalked inside.

Duncan followed, keeping them a few paces back in case Dio blew over anything important. Andy and Camille were sitting on the couch, and Andy was touching up a big bloody cut on Camille’s right cheek.

“Beaker shrapnel,” Andy said before Duncan could ask. “It’ll be fine by morning. Sibyls heal fast—when they’re not working with poisonous gases and radioactive isotopes.”

When Bela didn’t react, Duncan decided it probably wasn’t necessary to bail out the front door and take cover.

“We didn’t find shit.” Dio dropped into the chair closest to the couch. “We went by Merin Alsace’s apartment building, Jeremiah Drake’s penthouse, Katrina Drake’s main charity office—shit. We even went by where Reese Patterson lives and scared the hell out of two raccoons while we were sneaking around through the dumpsters. Not a shred of elemental energy in any of those places, other than ours.”

“No shields, no remnants, nothing.” Bela looked so tired that Duncan wanted to pick her up and carry her straight to bed. Because of patrols, Sibyls often slept during the afternoon, and she seemed to be used to that schedule. “The only thing I can think of is to find out where Merin Alsace’s coven meets and check those locations, but his aversion to perverted magick seemed pretty real to me.”

Dio shook her head, and little gusts of wind made chimes jingle across the living room. “This comes back to Jeremiah Drake. I know it does. He really didn’t like the question about Katrina having enemies. I’m going upstairs to see what I can find in newspaper and television archives.”

She pushed herself out of the seat and took off, leaving a rush of moving air in her wake.

“She’s cranked up,” Andy said as Duncan stared after Dio, confused.

What kind of library did Dio have upstairs, anyway? There were a few rooms, but enough for that much paper and digital storage?

Bela massaged his forearm and answered his question like he’d asked it out loud. “Air Sibyls do a little better with elementally shielded computers than most of us, and Motherhouse Greece keeps searchable archives of newspapers and television news reports in a database that we can access.”

Duncan took Bela’s hand in his and gave her knuckles a quick kiss. “Which newspapers and news shows?”

“All of them, I think.” Bela yawned.

Duncan knew that Sibyl science and equipment outstripped standard human technology, but now he realized it was way more than that. The Dark Crescent Sisterhood had ways of tracking history and information he barely could fathom.

From the couch came a loud “Ouch!” from Camille, followed by a burst of flames and the scent of scorched hair—and a big splash of water.

“
Now
you fire up and cook something?” Andy pulled a sprinkler head loose and let it shower Camille for her while she patted a cooked section of her red curls. “My
hair?
”

“Sorry,” Camille muttered as she and the couch dripped.

“Come on, Angel.” Duncan read Bela’s exasperation in the tight lines around her eyes, and he wrapped his arm around her waist. “Let’s get you to bed before you fall asleep on your feet.”

She leaned into his hug, then let him lead her toward the kitchen as Andy and Camille argued about whether the ointment Andy had put on Camille’s cheek smelled like dirty diapers.

“Just you make sure you let her sleep, Sharp,” Andy barked from the couch.

The swinging door closed behind them.

“Or not!” Camille yelled as they headed through the kitchen and down the basement stairs.

When they got to the bedroom, which Duncan now called “the locker room” to make her smack him in the shoulder, Duncan helped Bela out of her jeans and tunic. Her languid movements and closed eyes reminded Duncan of an impressionistic dancer, and he had to keep glancing at the Knicks posters to cool off while he rubbed her shoulders and kissed her head, then pulled back the sheet and blanket for her.

I can do this.…

A few seconds later, when he climbed into bed naked and eased over beside her, his resolve to let her rest nearly fell completely apart.

I … can … do … this.…

She reached out to him and hugged his neck as he tucked her in beside him, making sure the sheet covered her shoulder. “It feels good, just lying here with you, Duncan.”

IcandothisifyougotosleepNOW.…

He pressed his lips against the top of her head. “Rest, before I prove I’m not a gentleman.”

Bela’s soft laugh made his skin tingle. A few moments later, though, her breathing became rhythmic and soft. He kissed her again, closed his own eyes, and—

* * *

And he was standing on the ugly carpet in the hallway outside Reese Patterson’s office door.

“What the hell?”

Duncan grabbed his legs to be sure he was dressed, and he found himself in jeans and one of his Army T-shirts, the same clothes he had worn the day before. He had left them draped over the baseball bats in the chair beside Bela’s bed.

Now he was wearing them. No Glock. No badge. But he had his watch, which told him it was a quarter to eight, about an hour and a half before Bela and her girls would hit the streets and park on patrol—and he was supposed to be with them.

But he didn’t remember putting the clothes or the watch on, much less catching a cab or wandering all the way to East Harlem.

“I don’t sleepwalk,” he said out loud.

John Cole’s voice was cold and flat when he answered.
You didn’t. I brought us here
.

Duncan twitched at the sound, then clenched his fists at what John said. “What the hell does that mean?”

I waited for you to fall asleep, then took over
.

“Took over?” Duncan’s blood boiled huge and fast like water on a gas stove. “You miserable, chickenshit little fuck. If I could get you out of my head, I’d beat the living shit out of you.”

He turned to head back to the brownstone, but he stumbled. Almost fell. His feet felt clumsy, like they weren’t even his. He had to prop his hand on the wall to keep from busting his ass.

John.

“Asshole,” Duncan snarled.

Before he could bash his head against the old paint on the building’s wall, Patterson opened his door. He eyed Duncan like people eye drunks staggering by on the sidewalk. “Um, good. You’re here. Kinda freaked me out when you called—you didn’t sound like yourself.”

Duncan let go of the wall and tested his balance, which seemed fair enough at the moment. John seemed to have taken a powder, which was a good thing, because Duncan was close to beating in his own brains to get rid of the bastard.

“I wasn’t myself, Mr. Patterson.” He tried taking a step. Made it, no problem. That was a relief. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, come in and let’s get this done.” Patterson stepped aside for Duncan to enter. “And Detective, this is on me, for Katrina.”

“I can pay you,” Duncan grumbled as he edged past Patterson into the reception room. He had plenty of money from what he’d banked during the Gulf War and accounts he inherited from his parents and other relatives. Since starting with the NYPD, he’d lived in a small apartment in an old building and spent very little. Most of the time he just worked.

“Appreciate it.” Patterson led the way to his main office, then went around his desk and lifted a stack of papers. “But no, this is gratis. I owe her that, and lots more.”

He handed the papers to Duncan, who was trying his best not to act too surprised or confused, since Patterson had no idea a ghost had brought Duncan to his door without one clue why.

The papers were thick stock, official-looking, with stamps and seals. It took him just a minute of reading to realize what was happening. “Shit. This is the will. John’s will.”

Patterson seemed to take his irritation as shock or leftover grief, and he gave Duncan a somber nod. “I picked it up from Bestro and Perman today. Gwen Perman owed me a favor—but I promised them I’d have you sign everything, to make it official and get it off her to-do list.”

Duncan was thumbing through all the legalese, barely paying attention, and then he got to sections about assets.

His chest tightened right up, staring at all those numbers, and he looked up at Patterson. “No. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of it.”

Patterson’s big mouth pulled into a frown, and he jabbed one thick pointer finger at the paper on top. “Son, that’s four
million
dollars, and it doesn’t even count the other assets. Full control of the Societal Aid Fund—it’s a lot. Even if you dump the cash, you’re still talking millions.”

Duncan couldn’t speak. He was somewhere between furious and freaked, and John, the stupid bastard, was keeping way quiet.

“Four million dollars changes lives.” Patterson raised both arms and swept them around to indicate the entirety of his office. “I was a backstreet ambulance chaser who got lucky with the Drakes, and to tell you the truth, before I met Katrina, that’s all I wanted to be. But special women can change people, you know?”

Duncan had to clear his throat to keep his composure. “Oh, yeah. I’m clear on that one.”

“Katrina changed me forever.” Patterson’s expression turned sad. “I owe her everything I am, and that’s why I rode you at the interrogation, to come here and see this will. Once I realized you were John Cole’s heir—it’s about Katrina, you see? It’s about her legacy. She passed the baton to John, and he passed it to you. Somebody’s got to carry on her good work. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you do that, Mr. Sharp.”

This was more than Duncan could take. Completely. Four million dollars, a house, a charity organization. What the hell would he do with all that shit?

Leave it to Bela
, John said.
The house, and the Societal Aid Fund. The money goes to Sister Marianne at Mercy for the Homeless
.

Duncan stayed still, even though he wanted to start yelling at John.

Leave it to Bela? What the—

But wait a minute.

In a few weeks, he wouldn’t be here. And the Dark Crescent Sisterhood probably had plenty of need for houses. He’d be willing to bet they had mad skills when it came to business and making money, too. Katrina Drake’s charity would never have to worry about failing, or even being underfunded.

Now you’re getting it
. John’s voice drifted through his thoughts, sounding a little smug.

Fuck off
, Duncan shot back, as loudly as he could think it. Then he asked Patterson, “How long does it take to do a will?”

The lawyer shook his head, and his gaze dropped to the bulge of the dinar under Duncan’s T-shirt. “Does some kind of insanity go with wearing that coin?”

“Maybe. And I’m going to need access to this money.”

“I can cut you a check from the office war chest. You reimburse me when everything gets changed over, okay?” Patterson took out a pad and pen. “We’ll add a note about the temporary loan to everything else I’ll be drawing up. Okay, Detective Sharp. Your will. Fire away.”

In just under an hour, they were finished. Duncan made sure to leave instructions with Patterson about delivering the will to Jack Blackmore at the OCU headquarters after he died. Blackjack could be a goat prick as a commander, but as a man, he was one of the most honest—and kind—people Duncan had ever known. He’d have enough sense to hold off on giving Bela the will until she was ready to deal with it.

Just before nine, he managed to make it to the outer hall of the Mercy for the Homeless business office on Thirty-fourth near Herald Square, but they were closed. He located the right mail slot, and tucked the envelope with the check into the box with Sister Marianne’s name on it.

It’s what she wanted
, John said as Duncan hit the pavement again, heading for the brownstone.
Katrina’s foundation needed a shepherd, and the Sisters needed that cash so
the mission wouldn’t have to close its doors next week. I promised her, and now I’ve done all I can to keep that promise. Thank you
.

Duncan couldn’t find a comeback to that. He resented the hell out of what John had just done to him, but since the moment Duncan made John admit how he’d failed Katrina, John had sounded like a beaten, broken man instead of the cocky bastard Duncan had always known. That last bit, about the Sisters and the foundation—John sounded more like his old self.

To be honest, Duncan didn’t know what he’d do, how far he’d go to fix things, if he ever let Bela down. God forbid if he let her down and his mistake got her killed.

Don’t think it
, John told him.
You never want to be that man, I promise you
.

Duncan cut through a long alley to save time. It was dark, but since John had joined his brain, he could see just fine, light or no light. “Have you taken me over before, John?”

Just once, when you were still unconscious and I was trying to warn the Sibyls that the demons would come for them
.

“You scared Bela to death with that shit.” Duncan checked his watch and started to jog.

I know. That’s one reason why I’ve tried not to do it again. I know she’s it for you, Duncan. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her
.

“Don’t do it again. If you really need something, convince me.”

Silence answered Duncan.

He pulled up short near the end of the alley. “If I can’t know for sure Bela and her quad are safe from me—from you—I’ll go to the Mothers, eat my gun, and let them finish me off. Swear to God. In a full-on battle of wills, you know who’ll win.”

A sigh echoed through his mind along with the sense of John surrendering.
Yeah. I do know, Duncan. Fine. I won’t do it again
.

“No matter what?”

No matter what
.

Duncan turned to jog toward the sidewalk.

A hand shot out from behind a dumpster and grabbed the dinar around his neck.