Taste of Grief (Just One Bite #3) (7 page)

Alexar nodded thoughtfully, and then wiped his tired eyes.
"Yeah, I guess that's the smart way to handle things right now. We're
getting nowhere fast with making connections between the victims. I don't know
what else to try. Go ahead- start making contacts with the dealers. See what
you can find out. Threaten if you must, but get me something. The mayor is
riding my ass on this one, and Carson is dying for a new high profile case to
get his ugly mug in the papers again. It's not good press for upstanding
citizens to get themselves killed." He rolled his eyes and then moaned
when that movement reminded him that his head was throbbing. He rubbed his eyes
hard, as though that would remove his headache.

Lizbeth turned and walked out, smiling as he got up to make
his coffee. At least if nothing else could go right, coffee would make the day
a better one.

Lizbeth didn't say so to Alexar, but when he mentioned Giles
Carson her mind went into overdrive. Every bad thing that seemed to happen
these days had to do with him. Like a bad penny, he turned up everywhere. True,
he was the district attorney, but that was only because he killed his former
boss after attempting to kill Lizbeth. The man was certainly not the squeaky
clean saint he portrayed himself to be. She wondered if he could possibly be
behind this.

Sitting down at her computer, she went to her favorite
search engine. She combined Giles Carson's name with the name of their first
victim, Luis Valdez. She didn't expect to hit pay dirt, but the first link
showed that they had attended college together. Upon further digging it came to
light that they'd been in the same fraternity as well as a roadside cleanup
committee.

She cautioned herself not to get too excited as she typed in
the name of their second victim. Karen Cross was in his law school class. She
interviewed with the local paper about her at-home business. She stated in her
article that she'd attended law school but dropped out when she found out she
was expecting her first child. A photo in another article showed them attending
a fundraiser together- him looking polished in a black tuxedo, her glowing in a
black gown. She married her husband a year after this photo was taken. Lizbeth
wondered if Carson had merely been friends with Cross, or if they had actually
been a couple back then.

Excited beyond words, she typed the third victim and found
that he'd been a witness in a case several years ago. He'd actually been the
DA's witness, which meant he would have spent a great deal of time with Carson,
as the ADA had prepped the witnesses for cross-examination. Carson had a
definite connection to this man as well.

The fourth had no noticeable connection, but as the manager
of a local grocery store it was logical to suspect they may have met. The
grocery store he managed was actually less than a block away from Carson's home
and office. She wondered how many times over the years he had interacted with
the man.

 
The fifth was a
doctor, and nothing popped up on him, but since they had a list of patients in
the file she'd have to see if there was a match. The sixth was a dry cleaner,
and Lizbeth was willing to bet that Carson got his suits cleaned there. Perhaps
they could be written off as inconsequential, but she wasn't going to do so.
There was a link, and she'd make sure she found it, for all the good it would
do her.

Typing in yesterday's victim, she found the strongest link
of all. Roger Lincoln had filed a lawsuit against Carson for a hit-and-run
accident fifteen years ago. He'd dropped the charges almost immediately which
would explain why she'd not turned anything up when she looked into Carson
previously. Still, she'd be willing to bet the District Attorney would be very
displeased were this to come to light.

Leaning back in her chair, Lizbeth propped her feet up on
the corner of her desk. Her brain was working at warp speed trying to come up
with some way to make a case out of this. The man was damned near untouchable-
what could she possibly do about this? Nothing came to mind and she knew that
for now she'd have to sit on what she knew. It pissed her off beyond belief to
think that she'd be interviewing drug dealers for no reason, spinning her
wheels and getting nowhere while Carson sat safe and sound and continued his
games. Life was a bitch, but never more so than it was today. She'd go through
the motions, and the cases would go cold.

There had to be some way to catch this bastard. She
considered leaving an anonymous letter, or even a phone call, but there were
tons of those a week. Some were taken seriously and investigated, but they
nearly always found the one who wrote the note or made the call, too. The rest
were disregarded as lunacy, and with her luck she'd get caught and be in
serious trouble. She didn't know what she could do. Maybe Diandra would have
some ideas. Or maybe Eamon would have a suggestion. Hell, at this point she'd
confide in Adrian and pray he had some freaking clue of what to do. Otherwise
she predicted a clusterfuck of epic proportions. Some days she really hated her
job. She banged her head down onto her desk and prayed for inspiration.

Inspiration struck even as she prepared to head out for the
day. She grabbed a sticky note off of the pile on her desk and jotted down a
note to pick up a burn phone. Diandra had set her up with a joint account, but
she still had a separate account that her paychecks went into. She knew just
the cut-throat, eager reporter to submit the call to.

Rena Lakehurst was tall at 5'10" and used her height to
cut men down to size. She often paired the height with five inch stilettos that
showed her legs to the best advantage. She had auburn hair that curled under at
the ends, barely brushing her shoulders, and sharp green eyes that were a
lovely shade she'd never seen on anyone else. Her breasts were large and seemed
out of place on her trim body. Men often underestimated her to their detriment
and her amusement. She would be the perfect person to pass the information on
to- anonymously, of course.

She may seem like a sweet woman when you first met her, but
trying to take advantage of her was often a career-killing mistake. Lizbeth had
seen her in action often enough. After all, she was Lizbeth's ex, and Lizbeth
knew all her tricks.

Diandra woke from a night of uneasy sleep. She saw lit
tapered candles and statuettes down every corner of her home, and an eerie
voice kept whispering, "I will protect you if you worship me," in
first a male voice and then a female. Towards the end they became one voice, a
strange mix of male and female, saying, "We will protect you if you
worship us," in a low whisper. She awoke from the dream several times,
only to return to it once she was deeply asleep once more.

She stumbled downstairs to find RaeLynn already hard at play
on the parlor floor, a new teddy bear keeping her company. She looked up,
smiled at her mother, and then returned to an unending babble of baby speak
with the new toy. She bent down to press a gentle kiss to the petal-soft cheek
before heading towards the kitchen in search of coffee. The smell of food
coming from the dining room changed her course.

She found Adrian sitting at the dining room table, sipping
at a steaming mug of coffee. A quick sniff brought the sweet scent of sugar and
vanilla creamer wafting her way. A second place setting was sitting at her
usual spot at the table. Her coffee mug was empty, but he hurried to his feet
to fill it with the hot brew. He knew she took it black, so he handed it to her
without adding anything to the mug. She mumbled her thanks, the best she could
do before coffee, and he headed towards the kitchen, returning in a few moments
with a platter of scrambled eggs, limp bacon, and waffles.

Diandra raised an eyebrow in surprise when he set the plate
before her. "We didn't have any waffles in the house," she stated
simply.

"No, we didn't, but I brought a waffle iron when I
moved in, and you had all the ingredients to make waffles," Adrian replied
matter-of-factly. "Did you need blood as well?"

Diandra chewed at her bottom lip with a canine.
"Well," she started to say, then stopped and shook her head.
"No, I should be fine for another few days at the least."

Adrian grinned at her. "But if you have a ready,
willing and able donor right here on the premises, why not take advantage of
the fact?" Without another word he went back to the kitchen. A moment
later the smell of fresh blood reached her nose and she fought to keep her
canines from lengthening into fangs. It was a losing battle, but she tried for
more self-control. She feared the day someone was hurt near her if she couldn't
control herself better than this.

Adrian returned to the dining room with a glass in his hand.
It was much larger than the usual goblet, and Diandra's felt her eyes widen in
surprise. "You needn't give that much, you know. I can get by on a lot
less."

"Perhaps," he said, walking over to RaeLynn. He
removed the paper towels he had pressed to the wound, and the baby touched her
hand to his wrist. In seconds he was healed, and the flesh was unmarked as if
there hadn't been a gaping cut moments before in that same spot. He kissed the
top of her head and tickled her under the chin before standing up to throw away
the wad of paper towels. "But why should you, I ask again? If I'm able to,
why not let me keep you strong?"

"The point is this- what if something happens to you?
What if you leave? I need to be able to survive long enough without the blood
in case of emergency. I need to learn to control my baser instincts,"
Diandra said, even as she took a deep sip from the glass.

"You complicate your life unnecessarily, do you know
that?" Adrian asked.

Dia felt compelled to defend herself, even knowing the
question was rhetorical. "Perhaps, but I also prefer not to borrow
trouble. I've had more than enough trouble in the last year and a half or so.
Why take unnecessary risks? I'd rather complicate my life than bumble along
feeling safe and secure and risk losing everything. I've already had fate slap
me around once. I'd prefer it to not be my own stupidity that causes it if it's
to happen again," she replied.

"I can't fault your logic, but I'd hate to see you
become a fatalist because of your past."

Dia shook her head. "No, I'm not a fatalist. I'm a
realist, and it's about time I've become one." She'd finished her platter
while talking, hardly aware she was even eating. She took the last sip out of
the glass and finished off the blood with a gulp of rapidly cooling coffee. She
wiped her lips with a napkin, stood up, and brushed invisible crumbs off her
robe. "So introduce me to your altar. I'm ready to know more."

Adrian studied her, his lips pursed. Finally he nodded and
stood up as well. "All right, follow me," he said, leading the way
towards his quarters. She drew in a deep breath at the sight of his altar, a
large wooden table positioned where an entertainment unit and television would
normally be stationed. Candles stood in taper holders, unlit but partially
melted from previous use. It was laid out beautifully, and she felt herself
soften as the magic that filled the room entered her body and calmed her
minutely.

Adrian walked over to his altar and picked up a large chunk
of what appeared to be carved wood from the front center of the altar.
"This is an athame- a ritual knife."

Diandra cut in. "It's a piece of wood. How can it cut
anything?"

"It's meant to figuratively cut, not literally. It's
consecrated, ready to draw magick circles and cut images in the air. Mine is
cut from the willow tree, and the designs cut into it- two crescent moons
flanking a full moon- is meant to represent the Goddess. The tree is a symbol
of the Goddess, creativity, fertility, and intuition. I find the most peace
using a willow athame for ritual magick," Adrian said. "Most of my
personal magick is focused of love and healing, so you'll find my tools are
geared towards items with those particular traits."

He picked up the next item- a simple piece of wood, long and
tapered, made of a deeper, darker wood than the athame. "This is my wand.
Some people don't use one at all, but I find I like the focus of holding an
actual object in my hand as opposed to using my mind. My wand is cut from a
rosewood tree. Again, this is best for earth magicks, and does well with
matters of the heart.

"The left side of the altar is the God side, while the
right is for the Goddess." He next handled a small statuette of a man
holding a bow and arrow, only four inches tall. "This is Eros, the Greek
God of Love."

Diandra studied it closely, her brow furrowed. "It
looks like a larger version of Cupid," she said with a smile.

Adrian nodded, setting the statuette down. "Yes, and
that's not an accident. Some say he was the inspiration for the modern
representation of Cupid, so you're right." He reached to the Goddess side
of the altar, lifting a statuette done in the same style, this one of a female
stretching artfully, draped in a piece of billowing cloth and nothing else.
"And this is Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of Love. Some say she was
actually Eros's mother. I choose to worship them most of the time, although if
I am in need of something in particular, I offer a prayer or do a spell in the
name of whichever God or Goddess best represents my needs." He made sure
the figurines were placed back in their proper spots, each positioned in front
of a candle. "The candles also represent the God and Goddess. The red
candle behind the God is often the color I choose, although I know another
witch who uses a yellowish-gold taper. I also prefer white for the Goddess,
although my friend uses a light blue taper for everyday worship and a silver
taper on Pagan holidays."