is, how?”
And there it was. The riddle for which she had no solution. The one thing she and Cost knew for certain was that, in the other three murders and most likely in this one, the vast majority of the victim’s blood had been drained in a manner similar to how one siphons fuel from a gas tank with a hose. Only, they didn’t have a hose. They had no murder weapon whatsoever.
Maybe the Reporter was right.
Maybe Boston had itself a vampire.
A thirsty one at that.
WHEN THE BODY had been taken away and the crime scene secured for a second evidence sweep in the light of day, Rowen peeled off the latex gloves and shoe covers and shoved them into the pocket of her blazer. A fog had lifted and the dawn had come, swathed in a chilling, morose gray that had more to do with her mood than it did with the climate.
She climbed into her car and headed to One Schroeder Plaza, the main headquarters of Boston’s police department. There was time to check her messages and make some calls before the preliminary report from the autopsy would be ready. This case had priority status. Any new victims would be pushed to the front of the line. The powers that be were waiting, holding their collective breaths, for some sort of verdict. For any indication of a reasonable explanation that didn’t include sidebars to the Reporter’s melodramatic suggestions. Just what the city needed this close to Halloween.
So far, the murders had all taken place in one area and had since become known as the South End Murders. Not exactly original, but better than some others suggested at the station. It was bad enough that a smart-ass reporter had tossed out the idea of vampires to the general public. Having anyone in Homicide mention it, even as a joke, was not good at all. Especially since the reporter couldn’t have made the obvious connection if someone hadn’t leaked the cause of death.
Daylight crept over the city, the sun bleaching some of the gray, as Rowen reached Columbus Avenue. But she still felt shrouded in darkness, gripped in the choke hold of uncertainty.
Though she ignored the haunting feeling when working a case, the moment she was alone, her mind no longer focused on the scene or on a related report, she felt it…stronger than ever. It was more than the sensation of being watched. Far more intimate, somehow. As if her own shadow was in a peculiar manner “following” her.
Rowen shuddered and kicked the disturbing concept out of her head.
She had bigger problems to worry about.
“Damn.”
She cringed, felt like smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand. She’d left home in such a hurry this morning she couldn’t remember if she’d put out any Kibbles for Princess. Definitely hadn’t taken her out for a potty walk. Coming home to a puddle or worse was not among her favorite things to do. And letting the animal go all day, and possibly part of the night if an emergency came up, without food was unconscionable.
Thinking of her spoiled and pampered Maltese made Rowen smile no matter how irritating the domineering animal could be. She’d had the arrogant little piece of white fluff for two years, having rescued the dog after its original owner had been murdered and no one else had wanted a pet. Especially one who wore a genuine rhinestone collar and sported pink toenails.
The elderly woman’s body hadn’t been found for two days and Princess had stayed right beside her master the entire time, not leaving her side to drink or eat even though both bowls had been full and waiting. Now that was loyalty. Everyone should have someone or thing that cared that much. She supposed that was how she ended up taking the prissy pooch home. Rowen was tired of being alone.
According to the dog’s registration papers and the veterinarian who’d provided her health care, she was almost five years old now.
Rowen loved her like a child.
Her smile faltered. Memories she’d thought she had laid to rest three years ago filtered into her mind as if she’d flipped that switch with the mere mention of children. She forced the thoughts away, refused to loiter in that part of her past.
There was plenty of time for finding the right life partner and starting a family. It wasn’t as if thirty-one was that old. But on mornings like this one, she felt a hundred.
After parking she made her way along the slender cobblestone byway to the eighteenth-century row house she called home. Rowen had inherited the brownstone, once the home to servants of the wealthier Beacon Hill residents, from her grandmother, who was purported to have been a direct descendant of one of those servants. Rowen’s family was immensely proud of its heritage, however lacking it was in the historically privileged blue blood of the area. Her mother would say, “Who needed blue blood when you had greenbacks?” Her mother’s marriage to Rowen’s father, a rich Irishman, had infused the family with a healthy dose of financial security if not a royal lineage.
A genuine smile slanted across Rowen’s lips. This was Boston, after all, the city that gave new meaning to the phrase melting pot.
The steep cobbled alley that led to her front door was lit at night by gas lamps and embellished year round with overflowing flower boxes. From pansies in the spring to mums in the fall, there was always something blooming. She even managed to keep a cluster of spindly flowers alive in her own planters.
Despite the house being located in one of the city’s most esteemed neighborhoods, history would not let her forget the ghosts from the past that seemingly lurked between every brick and cobblestone. She laughed dryly as she turned the key in the modern lock that secured the ancient door. Boston possessed far too much ambitious history to be considered anything but haunted. The city was the perfect backdrop for crime novels. Gritty, with gothic architecture, and as old or older than anything that could be found in this country.
Rowen tossed her keys onto the table in the entry hall. “Princess!”
There was a time when the snobby little pooch would have met her at the door. Not anymore. She waited, ensconced atop her favorite pillow on the sofa, for her master to come attend to her every need.
Rowen paused at the archway leading to the parlor. Princess lifted her head and gazed at her mistress. “Hey—”
The rest of the greeting evaporated in Rowen’s throat.
The sensation of being watched, of not being alone was suddenly overpowering.
Instinctively, she reached for her weapon.
Princess angled her head as if to show off her pink ribbon and to say, Why haven’t you walked over here and picked me up? I’m precious and helpless.
Slipping into cop mode, Rowen wrapped her fingers around the butt of her Glock and eased into the parlor. Princess, the useless fluff, continued to sit there and stare at her master as if she’d lost her mind or, at the very least, her good sense. She didn’t even bark.
Listening for the slightest sound, Rowen stood very still for a few seconds. Maybe she’d imagined the feeling. She’d been awakened before three in the morning to go to a crime scene. It wasn’t impossible that lack of sleep had her imagining things. Especially considering vampires and other ghouls were dancing in her head, screwing with her need to form impartial conclusions.
Truth was, she hadn’t slept well in days. Six, to be exact. That’s how many it had taken for three young women and one man to end up dead, all from the same malady—a fatal blood donation.
The ancient hardwood floors creaked as she moved around the room, and she cringed at the sound. It wasn’t as if she could memorize the spots; they changed with the climate. She focused on keeping her respiration slow and even, listening intently for any noise.
Partially closed blinds permitted minimal light to filter into the rooms. Soaring ceilings and massive pieces of dark furniture merely absorbed the sparse light and did nothing in the way of reflecting it. If she ever re-decorated, light would be the dominant theme. Her grandmother might roll over in her grave, but Rowen would just have to take that chance.
She skirted her ancestor’s massive