Cole snorted. "You can't be held accountable for the bloody intentions of those you track. Get that thought well and truly out of your head, or you won't last long in this job."
I smiled grimly. "That could be a good thing, you know."
"Not if the little men with white coats come calling." He nodded toward the stains on the wall. "Whatever this thing is, it's got a mean temper. I'm not exactly psychic, and even I can feel the anger lingering on the air. I've called in one of the magi."
I raised my eyebrows. "Really? How could they help with your investigations?"
"They can't. But by being here, they might be able to get some sense of what this thing really is, and how it might be stopped."
"It's worth a shot."
Hell, anything that could generate answers was worth a shot. I rubbed my arms. The chill in the room was growing stronger, and I wasn't sure if the cause was the fading day or a soul getting ready to appear. I hoped it was the former, not the latter. Part of me just didn't want to face the soul of the woman. Didn't want to face her fury and confusion.
How could a simple apology ever be enough?
"There is, perhaps, one tangible clue here." Cole bent and picked several strands of golden hair. "The soul or spirit or whatever it is seems to have a fetish for cutting off women's hair. He's even forced this woman to cut off her own hair. There can't have been many serial killers in our past with that sort of obsession."
"He might not have been a serial killer in life. He may have just killed an unfaithful lover, then suicided." And maybe that meant it was true that such souls roamed the earth, unable to enter heaven or hell or wherever else it was that regular souls went. Though it didn't explain how he'd gained the power to enter others and make them commit such atrocities. To others, and to themselves. "But you're right, it's definitely a clue."
Hopefully, I'd find similarities and answers in one of the three files I'd requested.
The chill in the air was getting fiercer, and I rubbed my arms again.
"It's not that cold," Cole commented.
"It is when you're feeling the chill of afterlife," I muttered. "Have we got an ID yet?"
"Veronica Ward."
The cold sharpened abruptly, and energy ran like ice across my skin. I looked past him and saw her. A wisp of fragile cotton that hovered over the body, rapidly finding form. Finding voice.
Why, it said. Why?
I closed my eyes against the pain and confusion in that voice. Because I couldn't stop it. I'm sorry, Veronica, So very sorry.
Which sounded as inadequate as I'd feared, but there was little else I could do or say.
It rotated, that soul, its movements more controlled, less frenetic, than the others I'd seen. Considering her options, taking stock before she made any move. I had a feeling she'd been like that in life, too.
But you must stop it, she said eventually. Before the cycle stops for another year.
Cycle? So this had happened before? We're trying.
Fawkner. He lives in Fawkner. It is there you must stop him.
With that statement, the cold energy fell away, and her soul disintegrated, fleeing to whatever region of afterlife she was bound for.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. "Well, that was interesting."
"The soul spoke?"
I nodded. "She said we had to stop him before the cycle halts for another year. She also said he lived in Fawkner."
"See, I told you we had a serial killer on our hands."
"Yeah, but does she mean now, or when he was alive?"
"Does it even matter?"
"I guess not." I forced myself to study the room. "There is nothing else here that provides a clue in any way?"
"Nothing so far."
"You'll let me know if you find anything? Or if the magi finds anything?"
"First thing."
"Thanks, Cole."
His sudden smile crinkled the corners of his eyes and lent his features a warmth that was stunningly attractive. Needless to say, my hormones did excited little cartwheels. But then, my hormones were feeling more than a little frustrated after all that playing at the club.
"Two thanks in two days," he said, the twinkle in his blue eyes matching the killer smile. "That has to be a record for a guardian, doesn't it?"
"I'm not your average guardian."
"I think that's one point we can both agree on."
I smiled. "Finally. Does this mean we can go on a date, and have sex?" I asked, only half-kidding.
"No."
"Damn."
He laughed, a merry sound that had my smile widening. "You may be a killer, but you're a fun one to be around."
"Thanks. I think."
"No probs." He turned away to continue his investigation, and I headed for the car. Once outside, I sucked in the fresh air, trying to sweep away the remnants of death and destruction. It didn't help much. Both still clung to my skin.
I looked at my watch. It was nearing four. I could go home, if I wanted to. Perhaps find Kellen and ease some aches. But the mere thought had guilt stirring. Someone had died because I didn't know enough. Surely I owed it to the dead to remedy that.
I climbed into my car and headed back to the Directorate. The roads into the city were all grid-locked, however, and I amused myself by checking out the other drivers, trying to guess what they did for a living by the make of their car. To see if I was right, I lightly touched their minds. I was right a good forty percent of the time, which wasn't a bad effort.
When I finally made it into the Directorate, I pecked into the liaisons' office to see if my caramel-haired nemesis was there. Luckily, she wasn't, but the scrawny-looking vamp I'd worked with off and on during my years as a liaison, was. "Hey, David can you sign my car out for another night?"
"I have a note here—"
"Screw the note. I need the car."
"Salliane will not be pleased."
"Good." I pushed away and headed for our squad room. David's amusement followed me down the hall. No one was around when I walked in, so I helped myself to coffee then sat at my desk. After going through the security checks, I pulled up the three requested files and started reading them. It took a while, but eventually I hit pay dirt.
"You're looking mighty pleased with yourself," Jack said, as he walked into the room. He dumped a file on Rhoan's desk, then walked over to the coffeemaker.
"I found our killer."
"And?"
"He went by the name of Harvey Wilson, an itinerant handyman who apparently got fixated on one Erma McDonald. Followed her around like a dog in heat, and apparently got violent if she went out with other men."
Jack leaned his butt against the counter and took a sip of his coffee. "They weren't married or anything?"
"No, but Harvey treated her like they were. She took out a restraining order on him, but he seemed to have a sixth sense about the cops and could never be caught violating the order."
"Which he obviously did, if he murdered her."
"Yeah." I glanced briefly at the all-too-familiar images of bloodshed and destruction. "He discovered Erma was engaged to be married. Accused her of having an affair and swore that she would remain true to him, and only him, forever."
"So he tore her up?"
I nodded. "Psychically, not physically. They had a witness—a neighbor whose kitchen window looked into Erma's and who heard everything. Apparently, once Erma was dead, he chopped off her hair and shoved it into his pocket."
"So the cops caught him?"
"Not really. He waited until they arrived and had seen what he'd done, then shot himself." Which certainly fit what was happening now—the gloating sense of evil I kept sensing when we first walked in.