And the newspaper clippings in Father Antonio's file told little of how a ten-year-old boy had escaped the same fate.
"You know how I feel about coincidences, Raven." Tony's voice drew her back. "Delacorte was here last night."
"Not to play devil's advocate, partner, but the priest didn't exactly get a good look at him." Looking back over her shoulder, she turned toward the breezeway windows to the right. "Not from this distance—and in the dark with snow falling? He won't make a credible witness."
"Maybe we just see what Delacorte says about it. We'll get a shot at him this afternoon at three. We pretend to catch him up on the case, then turn it into a subtle interrogation. You up for the challenge of one-on-one with Mr. Freeze?"
"I don't want to hog all the fun. Why one-on-one?"
"Just seeing the way you got to him at the Dunhills'. If anyone can get Delacorte to talk, it'll be you." With caution in his voice, he added, "Be careful with this guy. If he's dirty and you push the wrong button, he could be real dangerous. But I'll be in the next room, watching his every move."
Raven wasn't sure if Tony didn't have that backward. Christian Delacorte slipped his way under her skin without effort. She would've preferred to pass on round two with him, especially with her shrewd partner watching behind a two-way mirror.
"Not sure I agree with your take on it. But if we're gonna do this thing, we'd better run a background check on Delacorte. I gotta have more ammunition on this guy."
"Agreed," he replied. Her partner turned to head back to the car, then glanced over his shoulder. "Let's get out of here. Place gives me the creeps." He wandered away, muttering, "Which is ironic considering what I do."
But Raven found herself rooted at the grave, wondering what drew Delacorte back here, time after time. Images of her father's funeral flashed in her mind. Even though he'd been taken from her by an act of violence, she hadn't witnessed his death. Her memories were grounded by a father's love. Yet in contrast, what monsters lurked in Delacorte's past? Only a young boy, he'd seen everything, according to the newspapers. She couldn't imagine such horror. Some of the articles in the priest's file alluded to a bungled police raid by crooked cops. Nothing proven.
She now understood Christian's resentment toward law enforcement—even if it did hit close to home. And to compound the outrage, his desire for retribution couldn't be directed at anyone in particular. Charges were never filed. She had no doubt he believed a massive cover-up had robbed him of justice. No wonder he bristled with hostility to the badge.
Despite feeling a connection to this man, she had to remain objective in her investigation. If he had killed Mickey Blair for a reason they'd yet to uncover, she must be able to see it and act upon the evidence. Her sense of duty bound her to that pledge.
But something gnawed at her gut. Nothing about this case looked simple. And with Christian Delacorte involved, she had the feeling things were going to get complicated.
The smell of fast food came from her wastepaper basket, providing a necessary alternative to the ever-present odors of cigarette smoke and stale afternoon coffee that permeated the bullpen of desks across the homicide department. Someone had left a nearly empty coffeepot on the burner. The stench lingered heavy in the air, challenging her ability to block it out.
Reading over the file on Delacorte, she was lulled by the usual background noise. Ringing phones, the never-ending sounds a metal desk makes, and idle sports diatribes in low male voices. From various searches, she uncovered that Delacorte had graduated with honors from the business school of the University of Chicago with an MBA and a minor in computer sciences. He had also received training from the FBI SWAT school in Denver and had achieved expertise in hand-to-hand combat, handguns, executive protection, and high-speed driving—all the credentials of a security specialist.
But his unique training method in the dark seemed highly unusual, almost a personal fixation. Raven made a note in the margin of a page. The thought steeped in her brain as she tapped the eraser of her pencil against the file.
Overall, he was squeaky clean. Certainly, nothing implicated him as a killer. The chief wanted a briefing on the investigation by the end of the day. And they didn't have much to report.
"You know, after we checked out Blair's apartment, I kept thinking we missed something," she muttered, looking up from the manila folder. "We found an SUV in his garage, but the man struck me as a guy with more extravagant taste in vehicles, so I checked DMV. His Mercedes was AWOL. I issued an APB on it. Maybe something will turn up."
"Yeah, good idea. It's shaping up to be a long day. After Delacorte, we talk to the ME, then update the chief. He'll wanna know about the autopsy report before his press conference at six." He knitted his brow. "Want a cup of coffee? I'm buying."
"Very generous of you, Rodriguez, considering this swill is closely related to toxic waste. They wouldn't dare charge for it. Maybe we should analyze the stuff in the forensics lab." She shook her head, declining his offer.
"Not a good idea, Mac. In this case, I'm a firm believer that ignorance is bliss."
Before making the trip to the break room, Tony called home to let his wife, Yolanda, know he'd be late. The sound of Spanish spoken softly into the phone had grown familiar. She'd even begun to pick up a word or two. After hanging up the phone, he reached for his wallet.
"Five bucks says he's late. You gonna take that bet?" Tony taunted her with money. He waved it under her nose and dropped it on her desk as he walked by. "Guy's got a lot of attitude."
When he returned, sipping his coffee, Raven replied, "Yeah, I'm gonna take that bet. I got five that says he won't be late. Let's synchronize our watches. Six till three."
"No, nothing doing. We use the bullpen clock, and according to that, he's got three minutes to—"
Before Tony finished, the desk sergeant stuck his head through an open door. "Hey, Mackenzie and Rodriguez. Got a man by the name of Delacorte asking for you two. What shall I do with him?"
"We'll come get him." She smiled, then stood and pocketed Tony's five-dollar bill. "Aha! You shouldn't be placing any bets today. That clip-on tie is bad luck."
"I think you're right. Wish I'd thought of that." He yanked the tie from his shirt collar and tossed it onto his desktop, then unbuttoned his shirt. "Not sure I've ever heard when a clip-on tie brought any other kind of luck."
With a sly look, Tony asked, "Hey, wanna bet the vampire Lestat has never owned a clip-on? Give me a chance to get my money back?" After she graced him with only a raised eyebrow, he whined, "Come on, Raven. Where's your sense of fair play?"
Christian Delacorte would have stood out in any crowd, but amidst the tangle of street riffraff lining the hallway by the front desk, the man looked terribly out of place.
Yet he didn't flaunt his difference. Hands in the pants pockets of an elegant charcoal-gray suit with black turtleneck sweater, he stared out a nearby window onto a harbor pier on Lake Michigan, lost in thought. The man looked good enough to eat with a very small spoon. But such a trivial analogy didn't fit Delacorte. He deserved better.
Alone in a crowd, he wasn't part of the world she knew. And as Raven stepped toward him, she caught the subtle fragrance of his cologne, another distinction from the smell of sweat and desperation in the waiting area.
"Guess after your shower, you're willing to accept a proper greeting." Extending her hand to force the issue, she kept her eyes on him. "Hi, I'm Detective Raven Mackenzie."