Penumbra (16 page)

Nothing about this situation was making any sense—including her two vastly different reactions to a man she could remember seeing in her dreams but not in real life. Until now, that is.

She frowned and tried a slightly different tactic. “Why was Blaine in the car with you last night, anyway? Are you friends?”

Wetherton hesitated. “Not really. But my wife knows his wife, so we occasionally see each other during social events.”

“What is his wife's name?”

“Anne Blaine.”

“I mean before she married him.”

He paused. “I think her surname was Grantham, or something like that. I'd have to ask my wife to be certain.”

Sam nodded. “Was his wife in the car last night?”

“No.” He hesitated, and she had a sudden feeling that he was searching for the “right” answer. Odd, to say the least—especially since she'd sensed no outright lies so far. Just avoidances. “He said she was ill, but they had the tickets and he didn't want to waste them. He'd come by taxi, so I said we'd take him home. He doesn't live that far from us.”

“You mean not far from your wife's house and not your Collins Street apartment?”

“Yes.” He paused. “I'm afraid my wife wasn't able to cope with the long hours I worked, nor did she like the constant media attention that came with being the partner of a politician.”

And wasn't that a well-rehearsed excuse? “I'm sorry to hear that, Minister.” No sense in totally annoying him, as tempting as that might be. “So, getting back to my original question—why was the general here, talking to you about the military budget, when you're the Minister for Science and Technology, not the Minister for Defense?”

“Easy. Certain military research allowances come out of the Science and Technology budget.”

“But why? Isn't that why there's a defense portfolio? To assign and control the military budget?”

“It's the
defense
portfolio,” he said patiently, as if he'd answered this question a million times. Or as if he were talking to a simple child. “Therefore, it concentrates on defense items. Personnel, big hardware items, small hardware items, et cetera. The research section of the military is lumped in with my portfolio.”

Well, there you go;
she'd learned something new. “Just one more thing, Minister, and I'll let you get on with your work.”

“Good.”

“I need to do a sweep of your office, just to make sure there are no bugs or anything.”

“I can assure you, this office is swept regularly, and nothing has ever been found.”

“I'm sure it hasn't, but it's still part of my job to check.”

He muttered under his breath, then stood up. “I can go get a cup of coffee, I suppose.” He paused. “And the door will remain open.”

“Minister, if I wished to snoop through your paperwork or filing cabinets, I'd simply pick up the phone and get a court order.”

He grunted and walked out. Knowing she was in full view of the secretary, she began her check, searching quickly and efficiently. She didn't find any bugs, but she did manage to place her own.

All she had to do now was sit back and hope it picked up some clue as to what the hell was going on with Wetherton—and what his true connection was to Blaine.

G
ABRIEL SHOWED HIS
ID
TO
the black-clad police officer keeping watch and ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape. The rotating red and blue lights of the nearby police vehicles washed across the night, splashing color across the white-walled ten-story apartment block directly ahead. The building had million-dollar views over Albert Park Lake, which became part of the Grand Prix racetrack when Formula One was in town. Douglass might not have had much money in her accounts, but she
did
have this apartment. Maybe she owned others; it wouldn't be the first time someone had invested in property rather than put up with the low interest from banks.

“There are three apartments on each floor. Douglass lives in 1003, which is the one with the lake view.” Illie was looking at his notebook more than where he was going, and Gabriel rather churlishly hoped he'd run into something. But the man seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to objects in his path and sidestepped each one at the last moment. And all without actually looking up. “The building has keypad number and thumbprint code security in place, and the system records all visitors.”

“You've checked the records for her apartment?” Gabriel flashed his badge at the officer standing at the heavily barred front door and nodded his thanks when the officer keyed the door open for them.

“Yes. No visitors recorded for the last forty-eight hours,” Illie said. “She left her apartment at five forty-five this morning and returned at two thirty this afternoon. She was alone both times.”

Another State Police officer stood at the elevator. Gabriel again showed his badge and asked, “Who's the officer in charge up there?”

“Captain Marsdan.”

Who was the head of Sam's squad when she'd been a State Police officer, and a man with no real liking for SIU interference. But he was an excellent cop and, despite his adverse opinion of the SIU, he was probably the reason they'd been called in so fast.

They made their way up in the elevator. Illie shoved his notebook in one pocket, then retrieved a small crime scene monitor from another.

Gabriel watched with mild amusement as Illie activated it, then tossed it into the air. It was always easy to tell raw recruits from those who had been with the bureau for years, simply because the newbies followed the rules to the letter. Those who had been around for a while recorded information only when there was actually something to record. And in cases like this one, there'd be a CSM in place anyway, so there was really no point in doubling up.

Black uniforms dominated the fifth floor, several interviewing neighbors and others guarding Douglass's door. Gabriel flashed his badge yet again and stepped inside the apartment.

A spherical CSM hovered in the middle of the living room, red light flashing to indicate it was recording. It swung around as he entered. “ID, please.”

“Assistant Director Gabriel Stern, SIU, and Agent James Illie, SIU,” Gabriel said almost absently as he looked around.

Douglass might have made a ton of money, but aside from the location of her apartment, there was little to indicate wealth of
any
kind. In the living room there was only a small TV, a coffee table and a brown leather sofa that had seen better years. The pale gray walls were bare, and the claret-colored, heavily brocaded curtains had that aged, dusty look that only came after years of neglect.

“A woman of minimalist taste, isn't she?” Illie commented. “Hard to imagine, given the image she'd presented at Pegasus.”

“Yeah, it is. Do you want to check out the rest of the apartment, see what you can find?”

Illie nodded, and Gabriel looked around as a balding man in his mid-forties came out of a doorway to his right. The captain himself. Surprise flickered briefly through Marsdan's small brown eyes. “I didn't think this case was big enough to bring out an assistant director.”

“It is when the case has links to an investigation already underway.” Gabriel walked across to the doorway Marsdan had exited through. It led into a bedroom—the place where Kathryn Douglass had met her death.

And it hadn't been an easy one, if the evidence indicator tags were anything to go by. There were at least ten of them, but only five of those caught his immediate attention. They were spread across the room, each one joined by a trail of blood that was already beginning to dry and darken. They were an indication of where the body had lain. Kathryn Douglass had been torn apart.

His gaze rose. A warning had been painted—in what looked like blood—on the wall.

Do not revive Penumbra.
Douglass was warned. She chose to ignore it.

Something inside him went cold. Penumbra—the project that seemed most likely to have produced Sam.

What the hell did Kathryn Douglass have to do with
that
project? She was far too old to be one of the children raised from those projects. And according to her records, she'd never been a part of the military, even if the foundation she controlled had deep military links.

So who was the warning aimed at? The military? The SIU? Or someone else entirely?

Someone like the mysterious, ever elusive Sethanon? But what did he have to do with someone like Kathryn Douglass?

Or was it, he thought, reading the message again, nothing to do with Penumbra itself, but rather Douglass—perhaps in partnership with the military—attempting to revive that project in some manner? Was that why only some files had been destroyed during the break-in at Pegasus?

And was it a coincidence that not only had a fire destroyed the Penumbra project, but whatever project Douglass might have been working on? Again, he seriously doubted it.

“Who reported the murder?” He walked over to the wall, carefully avoiding the outlines, blood trails and evidence markers.

“A neighbor. Apparently she heard screams and strange thumping.”

“Did she hear any voices? Or see anyone enter or leave?” Gabriel stopped and looked a little closer at the writing. It smelled like dried blood to his hawk-sharpened senses, and given the almost scraped effect of each letter, it appeared something other than fingers had been used as a writing tool. He'd guess rolled-up paper, or something like that. It certainly wasn't the type of effect achieved with cloth, though there'd obviously been plenty of blood-soaked material lying about.

“The neighbor didn't hear the elevator or any other voices, but these apartments have very good soundproofing,” Marsdan said. “The screams would have to have been extremely loud for the woman to have heard them at all.”

“How many minutes passed between the report and a squad car arriving?” Gabriel stepped back to take another overall look at the writing. The letters sloped to the left rather than the right, which was usually a good indication that the author was left-handed. Not that that meant anything in itself. A good percentage of the population was left-handed these days.

“The report came in at three fifteen. The squad car was here by three twenty-one.”

Gabriel looked around. “That's fast work, Captain.”

“There was a car in the area.” Marsdan shrugged. “They saw no one coming out of the building, and after gaining access to the apartment via the building's super and finding the body naked and in pieces, they immediately secured the main door.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Naked?”

Marsdan nodded. “The bedding was rumpled. We've already sent it to the lab to test for body fluids and DNA.”

Meaning Douglass might have known her attacker
extremely
well. “Is there a fire exit?”

“Yes, but it's alarmed. No one has come in or out of it.”

“No broken windows or anything like that to indicate entry from the rooftop?”

“No, sir.”

Then how had the murderer gotten in or out? There had to be
something
here, some access point Marsdan and his men had missed. “What about the air-conditioning ducts or vents? Does the building share a single system, or does each apartment have separate air-conditioning units?”

“The second option, I'm afraid.” Marsdan paused. “And so far, the only prints we've picked up are the victim's.”

“Not surprising. Whoever did this obviously had it well planned.” Gabriel paused, remembering what Douglass had said about bringing research home. “Has she got an office? Or a safe?”

Marsdan raised an eyebrow. “Both. The safe was open, but our murderer set fire to the contents rather than snatching them. We've asked Forensics to sift through the ashes and see if they can discover what the safe might have held.”

Gabriel suspected they wouldn't find very much at all. He looked past Marsdan as Illie came to the door. “Yes?”

“I found something you might want to look at.”

“What, exactly?” Gabriel asked, as he and Marsdan followed Illie through the living room.

“This apartment has a guest bathroom as well as a regular bathroom. It's little more than a toilet and washbasin, but it's situated on an outside wall and has a small, wind-out window which I presume is meant to give ventilation.” Illie glanced over his shoulder. “The window was open.”

“Big enough for someone to get in?”

“Someone? No. Some
thing
? Yes.”

Illie stopped in the doorway and Gabriel stepped past him. As his partner had stated, the room contained nothing more than a toilet and a basin. The soap sitting on the edge of the small metal basin was old and cracked, suggesting this room hadn't been used in quite a while, though the toilet itself was spotless. The window above it was roughly two feet in diameter, which was certainly big enough for someone to crawl through if they weren't so high up. With the winder in place, though, the amount of space the window could open was severely restricted. Windows and winders could be broken, of course, but this one was still intact. And right now, it was open only a couple of inches.

“Seems your people missed this,” he commented, without glancing at Marsdan.

“The open window was noted, but we are duty bound to assume human intervention first. Our searches are for more conventional clues and entry points.” He hesitated, expression annoyed. “We called you as soon as the other options were eliminated.”

Gabriel squatted and looked behind the bowl. “I would have thought the fact that she was torn apart precluded human involvement.”

“She was ripped apart?” Illie said, surprise evident in his voice.

“Yeah.”

“There are not many folks in the paranormal community who have the strength to do that,” Illie said. “I mean, bear changers would, but a bear changer couldn't get through that window.”

“Nor could any of the big cat changers, though they certainly could tear someone apart. But there would also be tooth marks, and I presume our good captain would have mentioned it if something like that was evident.”

“He would,” Marsdan confirmed. “It wasn't teeth, but the separation also wasn't clean enough to suggest a blade.”

Gabriel shifted to get a better view of the S-bend area and saw something odd—a feather. A
black
feather. He frowned. Sam had mentioned that the man in her dreams was a crow shifter—coincidence? He tended to think not.

“Though of course,” Marsdan said, “the coroner still has to make her report.”

“I found something.” Gabriel leaned a shoulder against the wall and said, “Crimecorder, record image and location of feather for evidence.”

The black sphere responded immediately, zipping into the room to hover inches from his head. “Image recorded,” a metallic voice stated.

“Resume original position.”

Gabriel put on a glove, then reached in and grabbed the dark feather. “It would appear our murderer is a crow.”

“A crow shifter wouldn't have the strength to tear someone apart.”

“This one obviously did—unless Douglass herself is a changer.”