"Yeah, no problem. And just call me Brian." Handing her the key, he added, "When'll you be done with your investigation? That yellow tape is bad for business," he said, but quickly realized his callousness on the subject of a dead resident. "Mickey was a class act. I'm gonna miss him."
"Yeah, well, not sure I can give you a time line. But we'll do our best." Hooking her finger into the key ring, she smiled and said, "Thanks. Not sure how long I'll be. If it's late, I'll keep the keys until tomorrow, give them back to you then."
Mickey's past had been questionable, given his frequent collisions with the law as a young man. Then all that stopped abruptly after Dunhill Corporation hired him nearly twenty-five years ago. Raven suspected the man was anything but a class act. Still, Brian didn't need to know his recently departed resident had a shady past. Innocent before proven guilty in a court of law, Mickey wouldn't have his reputation sullied now—one of the benefits of making the grand exit from this life before his past came back to bite him in the butt.
She stepped off the elevator on the eleventh floor and turned left. The elegant carpet runner covered the teak-wood flooring along the corridor, deadening the sound of her footsteps. Mickey had been one lucky stiff, enjoying a corner suite with a spectacular panorama of the lake. Now yellow police tape crisscrossed the entrance to his abode. His luck had run its course.
But as she neared the door, her eyes caught a glimmer spilling into the hall at the base of the door. So faint, she thought she'd only imagined it. Reaching into her fanny pack, she retrieved her Smith & Wesson, glad she had her longtime companion from her training days. She listened at the door and heard a muffled sound.
Recalling Blair's floor plan, she knew the entry looked onto a posh living area with two large bedrooms to the left and a study and kitchen to the right. A balcony overlooked the lake, only blocked by a set of French doors and strategically placed custom windows along the far wall.
Where the sound originated, she had no idea. But given the layout, she assumed someone might be in the rear of the residence. Most probably the master bedroom or the study. The yellow police tape hadn't been disturbed. Whoever had slipped inside had done it with great care. Any other way into the condo would have been risky, but not out of the question.
After quietly peeling away the crime-scene tape, Raven stood to one side of the door, so her shadow wouldn't give her position away. She slid the key slowly into the lock and turned it to the right. At the sound of the dead bolt, the subtle noise from inside the room stopped. Damn it! She winced and waited. Her patience was rewarded when she finally heard a drawer slide open. Turning the knob and testing the door, she knew she'd have only a second to slip inside. The light from the corridor would telegraph her entrance.
As far as she could tell, the intruder still moved inside with lights out. Raven made her decision. Gripping the butt of her gun, she closed her eyes for an instant, hoping to get her night vision. She opened the door and crept inside. Thank God for a well-oiled door binge.
Now she stood with her back against the wall. The entry shut behind her. Raven searched the darkness, holding her breath. Her ears strained for any subtle change.
Pitch-black. Only a dim glow from the windows shed a bluish haze into the gloom, backlighting eerie shadows. She stepped cautiously into the room, careful not to make a noise. Raven held her gun as adrenaline coursed through her veins, intensifying her wariness and prickling the hair at the nape of her neck. Her eyes darted across the suite. She conjured dark images that shifted in the murkiness—playing dangerous mind games.
And now, the room masked its secret—still as a crypt. Its hollowness aroused her worst fear. The prowler knew he wasn't alone.
CHAPTER 4
Gripping her gun in one hand, Raven splayed the fingers of her other along the wall and groped for the light switch. Eyes straining through the darkness, she hunted for any sign of movement. Her heart punished her rib cage, apprehension surging in her throat. She finally found the lights to the left of the front door, then paused. Once she flipped the switch, her eyes would take time to adjust, but she'd see more clearly. Unfortunately, so would the intruder. Her only advantage had been the element of surprise. With the room deathly quiet, she'd lost her edge.
She hesitated. Instinct signaled her to stop, to hold off on the lights. The emptiness of the room possessed its own sound. She sensed the trespasser's presence in the air, heavy like an oppressive fog. But something else lingered.
What was that smell? A scent washed over her, one she'd missed before. Her anxiety level morphed as the familiar tang touched her awareness. And the thrashing of her heart slowed—replacing fear with anger.
"You'd better have a real good reason for being here. You could've been shot." Her voice echoed in the darkness. She loosened the tension in her muscles but kept the gun ready in case she was wrong.
Silence. Her fingers tightened on her weapon. Had she been mistaken? Eventually, the faint rustle of material sounded from the study, followed by quiet footsteps on a wooden floor.
"How did you know I was here?" In the dark, the intimacy of the deep voice sent shivers across her skin.
Feeling along the bank of electrical switches, she turned the dimmer knob to slowly illuminate the room. The man walked carefully from the study to her right, hands raised shoulder-high. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, Christian Delacorte still wore a brown leather bomber jacket and black gloves—a sign he hadn't been here long.
"Was I that loud?" he asked, his tone unfettered by contrition.
Raven had no intention of telling him her secret. Otherwise, he might stop wearing the cologne that teased her senses with a hint of his sensuality.
"Maybe you're not the only one that can see in the dark, Delacorte. A woman's got to have some element of mystery." Setting her jaw, she demanded, "How did you get in here?"
"That's my little mystery."
"Not good enough, Austin Powers." She didn't care whether he got the cheesy movie reference. Her tongue was on automatic pilot.
His eyes remained steadfast on hers until they dropped to the weapon she still aimed at his chest. To make a point, she continued the threatening gesture. By the expression on his face, Delacorte looked far too confident for a man in his position. Raven decided it was time for him to learn the error of his ways.
"Turn around. Hands on the wall, assume the position." Her voice stern, she jutted her chin and held firm to her .38, showing she meant business.
His jaw dropped. "You've got to be kidding." Delacorte stood his ground, hands still chest-high.
"I rarely kid with a gun in my hand. Now turn around. Up against the wall and spread 'em." She scowled. "Just be thankful I'm in a good mood."
Gloved hands placed head-high against the wall, he leaned and spread his legs. As she expected, the move had been well worth her time. Glancing down to admire the cut of his jeans, she wrestled with a smile.
He sighed and dropped his head. "Yeah. Counting my lucky stars. Now what are you—" He gasped when she answered his question with an abrupt move.
Stepping closer, she raised his sweater, sliding cold fingers across his bare chest, dawdling along the soft curls of hair spread along his pectorals and down his stomach. The warm skin of his taut belly sent a rush of heat to her face.
"Ah. Watch it." He jolted at her touch; his voice cracked faintly. "Your hands are cold."
"Just don't move. I'm not done." Raven fought to keep the mischief from her voice. She retrieved the Glock from his leather holster inside his jacket. Slipping his gun into a pocket of her sweats, she leaned nearer his ear. "Nice piece."