Sins of the Angels Read online

  Then, when she didn’t think she could hold on for another second, Trent veered off and Alex saw a flood of people pouring in the door behind him. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, the cop who had greeted them at the door. Her hold failed as others took her place; then a nurse was steering her toward the door along with Trent, pushing them both out, shutting the door behind them. Alex sagged against the wall, arm throbbing with fire, and listened to the screams that wouldn’t stop.

  Trent’s hand closed over her shoulder and she started, glancing up at him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  All right? She had no idea. She was still reeling from what had just happened. Hell, she still wasn’t sure what had happened. She swayed, feeling the strength in his touch, fighting the impulse to turn and shelter in it. She pulled away.

  “I’m fine,” she lied. A white lie, really. When she stopped shaking, she would be fine. Maybe.

  Inside the room, their suspect’s cries diminished, then faded altogether. A few minutes later, the door opened and the medical staff began filing past her. The cop brought up the rear.

  “What the hell happened in there?” he asked, shock in his voice. “What’d you guys say to him?”

  Alex roused herself. “Very little, actually. And we got nothing from him.”

  The uniform snorted. “You won’t, either. Not today, anyway. They gave him enough to knock him out for hours, they said.”

  Damn. Damn, hell, shit.

  Alex peered through the open door at Martin James, lying deathly still under the restraints that held him in the bed, his eyes the only indication of life. Eyes that tracked past her to the man standing at her side. Eyes that lost their drug-dulled haze and focused with sudden intensity and—recognition? A shiver spiked down Alex’s spine. She glanced at Trent, found him rigid and equally focused on the man in the bed.

  What the hell—?

  She pivoted back to James and, stunned, watched him mouth a single, unmistakable word.

  “You,” Martin James said.

  She waited until they reached the car before she rounded on Trent. “He knew you,” she said without preamble.

  Trent shrugged as he unlocked the driver’s door. “I’ve never seen him before last night.”

  “He knew you,” Alex repeated, “and he was afraid of you.”

  Perhaps because James, too, had seen wings? She squashed the thought. Other than that brief flare of unearthly blue light, it had been too dark in the alley for James to have had a good look at Trent. He had to have known her partner from somewhere else.

  “Was he?” Trent opened the door and reached in to touch the electric lock button. Alex’s door clicked in response.

  She scowled. “He was terrified, and you know it. Why?”

  “I’m a cop and he’s a murder suspect,” Trent pointed out with an edge of impatience. “Does he need another reason?”

  No. Yes. Maybe. But whatever response Alex might have decided on died unspoken. Behind her, and far above, came the sound of shattering glass. She turned and looked up, searching for the source. A shower of glints and sparks rained down, brilliant in the afternoon sun, landing in a discordant, tinkling chorus over cars and pavement. She hadn’t fully registered their meaning when foreboding drew her attention upward again—

  In time to see a man in a hospital gown tumble from a ninth floor window, free-falling silently, horribly, through the air.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Verchiel paused outside the Highest Seraph’s door. She did not want to be here, did not want to speak to Mittron again—did not want to deal with any of this. She rested her forehead against the oak barrier between her and certain confrontation. How could she have allowed this? Could she not have foreseen what would happen? No matter that Mittron commanded the obedience of nearly every angel in Heaven, herself included, she should still have fought harder against what her every fiber had told her was wrong.

  Should have, but once again hadn’t.

  She sighed, raised her head, and knocked.

  “In,” came Mittron’s disembodied voice.

  She pushed open the door.

  “You look unhappy,” Mittron greeted her from beside the window, his bearing aloof, his eyes cold.

  “The mortal who attacked the woman—”

  “Is dead. I know.”

  Verchiel’s heart missed a beat. The event had only just occurred; did Mittron have another angel monitoring Aramael? Monitoring her? “You know?”

  “I ordered it.”

  She felt for the door frame behind her and leaned against it. “You! But that would be”—she caught back the word murder and finished instead—“interference of the most direct kind.”

  “I didn’t order him killed, for goodness’ sake. Only that he be allowed to do as he wished, to take his own life.”

  “But—”

  “The man’s mind was destroyed by what happened, Verchiel. He would never have recovered. Allowing his death was a mercy rather than interference. It will have no effect on the pact. Besides, we couldn’t risk him telling the woman what he had seen. It would have raised too many questions.”

  Verchiel’s lips tightened. The Highest Seraph’s shortsightedness astounded her sometimes. “Perhaps, but his death will raise other questions. Many others. The woman already suspects something about Aramael’s presence there, and this will only make matters worse.”

  “Really, Verchiel, you worry too much. Our only concern with the Naphil is keeping her out of Caim’s hands. She is of no import beyond that.”

  Verchiel glowered at him. “And Aramael? Is he of no import either? With all due respect, Mittron, your interference makes an already impossible hunt even more difficult for him.”

  Mittron’s gaze sparked amber fire. He drew tall. Threatening. “You overstep, Dominion.”

  Verchiel wrapped her hands into her robe and gritted her teeth against a retort. Former soulmate he might be, but he was also her superior, and continuing to question his judgment would only lead to a formal reprimand and certain suspicion regarding Seth’s imminent involvement in the whole mess. If she truly wanted answers to the increasing number of questions she had, or to assist Aramael, she would do well to back down while she still could.

  Swallowing her indignation along with her pride, she inclined her head. “You’re right, Highest. Forgive me.”

  “Are we going to have a problem with seeing this assignment through, Verchiel? If so, perhaps you should consider removing yourself and letting someone else take over.”

  Verchiel raised an eyebrow. As if any other Dominion would agree to take on Aramael. She was the only one of her choir who wasn’t petrified beyond words by him. But when she opened her mouth to share the observation, she hesitated. Wait. Mittron knew full well how wide a berth the others gave her charge. He had to know that none of them would agree to the task, and that he would have to take it on himself. So why would he even suggest the idea? Unless that was his intent. But why?

  “Well?” Mittron asked.

  Verchiel buried her reaction to the question under an ingratiating smile and a reassurance. “That won’t be necessary, Highest,” she murmured. “I’m quite capable of finishing this.”

  She’d better be, because Mittron’s heavy-handed approach might well put Aramael over the edge—and turn the idea of all hell breaking loose into a reality.

  ALEX MADE A beeline for her desk the moment she and Trent arrived back at the office from the hospital. Trent could deny it all he wanted, but she’d swear on her own sanity that her so-called partner and Martin James knew each other. She paused, remembering the current, questionable state of said sanity, then shrugged irritably. The point was, if Trent had lied about knowing James, what else was he keeping from her? She couldn’t put it off any longer: she needed to know what the fuck she was dealing with.

  A picture of wings flashed through her mind as she reached for the phone. Her hand jerked sideways, knocking over a container of pens.

 
Whom, she corrected herself. Whom she was dealing with.

  She dialed staffing.

  “Hey, it’s Alex Jarvis from Homicide. I need you to access a file for me.”

  A presence loomed over her and she looked up to find Trent, his brow like one of the storms plaguing the city. She put her hand over the receiver and fixed him with a level stare. She didn’t even pretend politeness.

  “Private conversation,” she stated.

  For a moment she thought he would object, but then, his face going cold, or colder than it had already been, he retreated in silence toward the coffee room. Alex turned her attention back to the phone. Three minutes later, as unenlightened as she’d been when she began her mission, she slammed the receiver back into its cradle. Classified? They had to be fucking kidding. Since when was a homicide detective’s entire service record classified?

  She flopped back in her chair and leaned without thinking on her injury. Pain lanced through the abused limb and into her shoulder. She bolted upright again. “Goddamn son of a bitch!”

  “Bad day?” Joly inquired, looking over from his desk.

  “You have no idea,” she muttered, waiting for the pain to recede and the blood to return to her face.

  “Jarvis!”

  Alex jumped at the bellow and turned to see Staff Roberts in his office doorway, looking about as happy as she felt. She sighed and raised her hand, the one that wasn’t throbbing in time to her heartbeat, to let him know she’d heard.

  She pushed herself to her feet. “Apparently it’s just going to keep getting better, too,” she muttered to Joly. She threaded her way through the maze of desks to Roberts’s office and tapped on the door frame.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Roberts motioned her in, continuing with the paperwork on his desk. “I assume there’s a reason a call to staffing is more important than filling me in on what happened at the hospital?”

  Sometimes she hated how fast news traveled in this place.

  Alex straightened her shoulders, knowing there was no point to lying. “I wanted to follow up on Trent’s file. I’d still like to find out about his background.”

  “And I would like you to focus on the goddamn case.” Roberts slammed the pen he held onto the desk. “How many ways do I have to tell you to deal with this, Jarvis? Trent is your partner. Whatever his service record is has no bearing on the fact that he will remain your partner, and continuing to fight me on this will affect your own record. Now, are we finally straight on this matter?”

  “Of course,” she said through her teeth.

  “Good. Tell me about the hospital.”

  She shrugged, immediately regretted doing so, and fished in her pocket for the painkillers Roberts had given her earlier. “There isn’t much more than what I told you on the phone. James went ballistic, they sedated and restrained him, we left, he got loose and threw a chair through the window, and then he jumped after it.”

  She popped the cap off the pill bottle and shook out two tablets into her palm. She considered the building headache and throbbing arm and added a third pill.

  “You need to go home?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sure you are.” Roberts locked his hands behind his head. “So our only suspect offed himself. Why?”

  To her mind, the better question was how. How had the heavily sedated James slipped his restraints in the first place, let alone found the strength to smash a chair through a plate-glass window and then follow in its wake?

  “All I know is that the man took one look at Trent and lost it, Staff. Completely and totally. I’ve never seen anything like it—he was terrified.”

  “Of what?”

  She grimaced. “Trent?”

  Roberts’s brows formed a solid slash above his nose. “Damn it, Alex—”

  “Just telling you what I think, Staff.”

  Her supervisor raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Then why don’t we try confining it to what you know instead? As in, do we have anything more on the murder weapon? What did Bartlett say about that, anyway? Is there any chance James’s knife is a match to any of the vics?”

  The very thought of James’s knife had Alex protecting her injured arm with its partner. As for the idea that the weapon might have been used on others … She waited for the slight roll in her stomach to subside, then addressed Roberts’s question. “I haven’t heard yet, but I can—”

  “Staff?” Joly leaned into the office beside her. “We have two more.”

  “Two—” Roberts stared at Joly for a second, then stood up and reached for the jacket on the back of his chair. “When?”

  “Sometime in the last twelve hours.”

  Roberts paused with one arm thrust into a sleeve. “What, both of them?”

  “Looks like. One out in Etobicoke, the other downtown.”

  “Christ.” Roberts scowled and thought a minute, then sighed. “All right. You and Abrams head to Etobicoke and see what they have. Call me when you get there. I’ll head out with Bastion and Timmins to the other one.”

  “Um—Staff?” Alex held up her hand for Roberts’s attention.

  “You’re done for today.” Roberts shrugged the rest of the way into his suit jacket.

  “But—”

  “I mean it, Alex. It’s nearly five o’clock, you’re injured, and you are done for the day. Write up your reports from the last couple of days and then go home. That’s an order.”

  “But—”

  Her staff inspector brushed past her with a look fierce enough to make her clamp her lips together and swallow the rest of her objection. She and the others might occasionally joke about the Wrath of Roberts, but the phenomenon was real enough—and not something she cared to trigger. Her arm gave a twinge and she shifted its position. Besides, there was always a chance that Roberts might be right about leaving her behind this time.

  She realized her staff inspector had stopped to speak to Trent and she moved toward them, unashamedly eavesdropping. Hearing her supervisor invite Trent to ride along, her heart gave a little leap. Go, she silently urged her partner. Please go.

  Trent looked at her. “I think it’s better if I see Detective Jarvis home safely,” he said.

  Alex bridled, forgetting she wasn’t part of the conversation. “I don’t need looking after.”

  If I’m to protect Alex …

  Again those words from last night. Alex felt the blood drain from her face and she swayed slightly, just enough to make Roberts raise a skeptical eyebrow and turn to Trent again.

  “Good idea. When she’s finished her paperwork, you can run her home.” Roberts gave her a tight, frosty smile. “And yes, Jarvis, that’s another order.”

  ALEX PASSED BY the conference room on her way to get a coffee, paused in her step, and returned to the open doorway to confirm what her eyes told her she’d seen: Jacob Trent, settled into a chair, with files spread across the table in front of him. Appearing to do the kind of police work for which he’d expressed such disdain just yesterday.

  She blinked. Then she leaned her good shoulder against the door frame. “You look busy,” she said, her voice guarded.

  Trent’s gaze barely brushed over her. He pulled a file toward him and flipped it open.

  She tried again. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

  “Research.”

  “Something in particular?”

  “More of everything in general.” He scanned the file, made a note, and shoved the folder away. He selected another.

  Alex watched him in silence for a few minutes. She should leave him alone, she thought. She didn’t care in the least what he was up to; had decided, for the sake of her nerves, to limit any interaction with the man to the bare minimum. So she should just go and get her cup of coffee, and then continue with her own paperwork instead of contemplating another attempt at conversation. But she remained where she was until Trent set the second file aside and curiosity overcame her better sense.

  Pushing upright, she
wandered into the room to stand beside him. He went still at her approach, and for a moment that heightened awareness moved again between them, making her suddenly aware of the heat rising from him, the softness of his hair near her elbow, the shift of his body so near her own. She swallowed and shuffled sideways, and then made herself look at the notebook in front of him.

  With an effort, she focused on the words he’d written and saw he was listing everything they knew of their victims. She cleared her throat.

  “What?” He flipped open the third folder.

  “You could save yourself some trouble,” she said.

  Trent looked up, his expression grim and unfriendly. Alex ignored it and pointed to the enormous dry-erase board hanging on the wall opposite, covered in notes on all the victims.

  She strolled toward the door again. “We’ve already wasted our time on that.”

  His voice stopped her in her tracks, cold and clipped. “Detective Jarvis.”

  She hesitated, then half turned to him, her eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Yes?”

  “I said forensics was a waste of time,” he said, his head bowed over the file on the table. “I’ve come to believe linking the victims together may be of some value, however.”

  Alex chewed the inside of her bottom lip and studied his bent head. Coffee, she reminded herself. You wanted coffee, not an argument.

  She tucked her injured arm against her side, supporting it with her other hand. “Detective Trent, we have some of the best forensic people on the continent working this case,” she pointed out. “They haven’t left so much as a grain of sand unturned. How in God’s name can you call what they’re doing a waste of time?”

  “Have they found anything yet?” he asked, continuing with his notes. “Fingerprints, DNA?”

  “Not yet, but they will.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  She huffed. “The killer can’t be this careful forever, damn it. Or this lucky. Sooner or later he’ll screw up and leave something behind—a hair, an eyelash, skin under a fingernail—and it won’t rain all over the scene and wash away the evidence. We’ll find what we need, Trent. We always do.”

  “The weather has nothing to do with it. You’ll find nothing, Detective, because there is nothing to find.”