The stairs? No. Sutherland glanced at his girlfriend, a tiny woman with auburn hair, and pointed toward the bar. She nodded and followed him.
Chiron considered tailing them—as he had in every off-duty moment of the last two years—but he’d gotten nothing for his trouble, except a warning from the squad sergeant. He would have killed Sutherland months ago, but then he would never find Akantha’s remains. Would he ever discover what really happened to her? He had been protecting Akantha for so long. Even in her death, he didn’t want to let her go.
“Take the next elevator,” Chiron told a small crowd of conference-goers. If following Sutherland were a fruitless task, maybe following Sutherland’s red-dressed quarry wouldn’t be. Maybe she knew what Sutherland was up to, could somehow lead him to Akantha’s remains. He pressed the button, and the door slid open.
Stepping inside, he slid in the key card for the concierge level and glowered—the elevator doors were too damned slow. Maybe he could save her. Maybe he could save the blonde where he’d failed Akantha. If the elevator ever moved.
“Damn.” Chiron slid the card again, hoping to convince the doors to shut. Akantha’s red hair had been a wild mass, hair more fitting for a Plains pony than a woman. She’d been leaning on Sutherland’s arm that night, her lips curled as she’d delivered a flirtatious jab. She’d always been good at those. She’d always been good at staying just out of Chiron’s reach, too, but that memory wouldn’t help him now.
As the elevator whirred up the flights, Akantha’s final smile flashed though his mind, stabbing his gut and twisting. What had Sutherland done to her, with her? If she’d been tortured…If she’d suffered…Almost two years later, the guilt nearly choked him. If he’d been man enough to hold her affection just a little longer…If he could have protected her…
Stop it. Laments could last centuries, and they never cured a thing.
His brain refused to listen, though. Akantha’s face—flushed with desire—flashed through his mind. “Chiron,” she’d said, her long fingers possessively hanging on Sutherland’s arm. “This night is mine. Leave me be.”
Thankfully the elevator doors opened before the memory played itself out. Touching his gun, Chiron relegated the sorrow to a dark pocket of his mind and stepped into the silent hallway. He stayed focused now, turning the corner as quietly as he could.
“Jesus!” She nearly jumped out of her skin. Behind her heavy-rimmed glasses, her eyes were wide with fear. The air felt strange in the hallway—it crackled with ozone. “You scared the crap out of me,” she said.
“Relax. I’m a cop.” He reached for his badge. Something had seriously freaked her out. Erik Sutherland.
“A cop.” She took a deep breath, and he watched her relax. He could tell she was glad to have him here.
He showed her his badge. “Kai Atlanta. San Diego PD.”
“PD as in Police Department,” she said. It wasn’t a question. He had the feeling she was trying to calm herself.
“Yeah.” He drew out the word. “What else would it mean?”
The muscles in her shoulders loosened, and although she didn’t smile, he could see her thinking about it.
“You have an MD?” she asked. Even pulled back in a severe ballerina bun, her hair was beautiful, like spun gold. Straight fringe crossed her forehead in a clean line, and each strand was impossibly thick and neat.
“I’m not a doctor,” he said.
“If you’re not a doc, PD doesn’t stand for Parkinson’s disease, then. Rules out progressive disease, too.”
She was teasing him, he realized. “I guess it does.” What the hell was progressive disease?
“If you’re a chemist, PD might stand for palladium.” She inspected his thighs and chest, boldly. “But you don’t look like any chemist I’ve ever met.”
“Not a chemist,” he agreed. The light down the hall made her bared shoulders gleam. What would the thin red straps of her dress feel like under his fingertip? “But I understand chemistry perfectly well.”
She ignored the innuendo. “If you looked more like an electrical engineer, I might suggest partial discharge.”
“I don’t know anything about partial discharge.” He met her eyes, trying to unnerve her, but she unnerved him instead. Blue specked the green of her irises, reminding him of the Aegean in the summer. He could pull off those glasses and—he stopped the thought. “For me, discharge is complete—or nonexistent. I don’t do anything halfway.”
This got her, and she started to laugh. The line in the middle of her forehead disappeared. He realized the ozone charge he’d first noticed was gone, too. Had he imagined it?
“You done trying to impress me?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” A smile played in her eyes, and the color was back in her face. “Did it work?”
“I’m impressed.” He shook his head. “But not by your encyclopedic knowledge of PD abbreviations.”
“What then? My fashion sense?”
He laughed again, although the way her red dress slid over her full breasts made a fashion statement of its own. “I’m impressed you didn’t spray me with mace or try some fancy kung fu on me.”
“Why?”
“You thought I was someone else coming out of that elevator, didn’t you?”
“I—”
He didn’t give her a chance to lie. “You’re right to be afraid of Erik Sutherland.”
She paused a minute as if considering something. Did she know something about him? “Who?” she said, finally. She looked as innocent as a newborn lamb, but he didn’t trust it. He’d learned enough about trust to sum it up in one word: don’t.
“Erik Sutherland. Dark-haired guy stands about a foot taller than everyone else—”
“Except you.”
He ignored the observation, but she was right. “He’s with a small auburn-haired woman.”
She nodded. “I saw him—them.”
“What’d you two talk about?”
“Talk?” Her eyebrows arched in surprise over the top of the dark rim of her glasses. “We didn’t…talk.”
Did they fuck? That didn’t seem likely. For one thing, this woman seemed too afraid. For another, Sutherland’s girlfriend rarely left his side. “You didn’t talk over the phone before the conference?”
“No.”
“Not behind the waterfall where no one was watching?” He nodded, trying to encourage her into confessing something, anything. He’d seen Sutherland looking at her, stalking her. He’d seen recognition between the two of them, hadn’t he? “You’d be surprised what the hotel staff pretends not to see. All I have to do is ask.”
She stepped back, her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I like what you’re suggesting. Why would I lie to anyone, much less a cop?”
“People have all sorts of reasons to lie.” He should know. He’d been living a lie for nearly four millennia.
“Look.” Her voice tightened. “If you’re bringing me in for questioning or something, I’ll call my lawyer. Otherwise, leave me alone.”
“Did Sutherland tell you what his affiliation is? Where he works?”
“Good night, Mr. Atlanta.”
“Hold on.” He’d pushed her too far, and she’d leave now. His regret surprised him. “I’m just asking you what you talked about.” He held up his hands, wishing he could prove