chapter 1
A smoky haze shrouded the blue-gray mountains surrounding Asheville, North Carolina as Detective Amber Buckley slid from the passenger seat and met her partner at the hood of the car. She had more investigative experience, but she’d let him take lead in the Lifeblood slayings. Reid Sheridan had an ego, and this was the south. She could play along. Up to a point. But she was about ready to call it a day, and her patience was growing short.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the parking lot, and the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle tinged the humid air. The crime scene tape had been taken down months ago, and the employees had returned to work as usual. Birds sang above the distant sound of traffic and nothing disturbed the peaceful tranquility of the day. And yet, something about the tissue bank turned research facility raised the fine hairs on the back of Amber’s neck.
Without warning, her pulse jumped as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She took a deep breath and then another, trying to slow her spinning head.
Was she having another episode—a precursor to a full-blown anxiety attack?
Struggling to keep up with Reid, her gaze swept the parking lot, hoping to find a cause for her anxiety—hoping her partner wouldn’t turn around and notice her shaking limbs or the sweat on her brow.
This wasn’t Iraq. Or—
Deep breaths. Imagine the ocean. Hear the gently rolling waves of calm surf. Release the fear. Relax.
The relaxation technique slowed her heart rate. She drew in a slow, even breath, forcing her shoulders down and away from her ears.
“I hate that we have to do these follow up interviews,” Reid said as they approached the front entrance to Lifeblood of America. “Makes me feel like a flunky.”
“I prefer doing the follow up interviews,” she said, forcing herself to remain calm. “In the initial investigation there isn’t much to go on but instinct and that first visceral reaction to the crime scene. Now, we have a trail of evidence and prior statements.”
And no dead bodies…or blood.
Memories of Iraq weren’t the only nightmares haunting her.
A shiver snaked down her spine as she reached for the door. Reid got to it first.
“It’s a shame the murders didn’t occur in our district,” he grumbled. “I don’t like getting Daniels’ and Tanner’s sloppy seconds.”
Amber slapped her palm flat against the glass before Reid could pull open the door. “How can you be so callous? Two people are dead and another is missing.”
“Yeah, well, you got your experience in Iraq. I need this. You don’t. And it’s not like I can bring the vics back to life.” He curled his fingers around her wrist and peeled her hand from the door.
Biting back a sharp retort, she balled her fingers into fists and followed him inside.
Okay, so maybe Reid was just overly ambitious. She got that. He wanted more homicide experience before applying to the NYPD. But he wouldn’t get it in Asheville. The city only had about eight homicides a year and the detectives with the department’s Criminal Investigation Unit were assigned to geographic patrol areas. Amber and Reid worked the Adam District, which covered the northwest area of the city. The Lifeblood Slayings occurred northeast of the city in the Baker District.
After five months and no additional leads, Captain Stratford had asked Reid and Amber to look at the evidence and conduct follow up interviews before he called in the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation. Daniels and Tanner didn’t like sharing their case, but nobody wanted the captain bringing in the SBI.
Inside Lifeblood of America’s lobby, black and white Terrazzo floors gleamed like polished glass. Back in March, those same floors had been spattered with blood.
The thought sent Amber’s pulse skyrocketing. Mental images of crime scene photos overlapped her vision like a holographic Polaroid. She could almost see research assistant Tina Gallagher slumped next to the door in a pool of blood, her mouth opened in a silent scream.
Had Miss Gallagher known she was going to die? Had she felt the paralyzing grip of fear before her throat had been cut?
Amber understood terror—the inability to move, rendering a person incapable of action or speech—of rational thought. Memories tapped at her brain—painful, bloody memories.
Don’t go there!
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she visualized the ocean again as she followed her colleague to a mahogany reception desk in front of a peaceful mountain mural. The Blue Ridge in spring. Waterfall and mountain laurel—calming, peaceful—the antithesis of what had occurred in the lobby last March.
“May I help you?” a petite brunette asked in a somber voice.
Both Amber and Reid flipped open their badges. Reid spoke in a deep authoritative voice. “I’m Detective Reid Sheridan. This is my partner, Amber Buckley.”
Amber tensed. Once again, he’d failed to identify her as a detective. But she let it slide. No sense calling public attention to his lack of respect.
She smiled and put away her badge. The receptionist’s gaze slid across the lobby to where Tina Gallagher’s body had been found. Her cheeks paled.
“What can I do for you?” she stammered.
“Delaroche’s office. Where is it?” Reid said, clearly enjoying the receptionist’s anxiety. Amber wanted to whack him on the back of the head.
The name Julia Jackson was stenciled on a brass nameplate on the desk but Reid ignored it. Amber pasted a smile on her face and softened her voice. “Ms. Jackson?”
The young woman nodded. Amber held her gaze, trying to put her at ease. “We’re here to conduct a follow up interview with Mr. Delaroche and Mr. Maxwell. We were asked to meet them in the second floor conference room at four. Could you have someone show us up please?”
“Of course.” Ms. Jackson pressed the side of her earpiece and turned her head, speaking in hushed tones for privacy. Then she looked up and offered a wobbly smile.
“Jimmy’s in the security office,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper as she tilted her head toward the door behind her desk. “Since the murders, he’s not allowed to step away from the monitors. But Grant should be here momentarily to show you up.”
“We don’t have all day.” Reid opened his suit jacket wide enough to show his shoulder harness. Amber suppressed a groan. He’d obviously watched one too many Bruce Willis movies.
“Thank you,” she said to Ms. Jackson before turning to glare at her partner.
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. We’ll wait.”
Patience was not his middle name.
While Reid paced, Amber turned her attention to Ms. Jackson. “How well did you know Miss Gallagher?”
Blank stare. “I didn’t.”
“You didn’t know her at all? Or you didn’t know her well?”
“We never met.”
Amber tried not to scowl, but she’d yet to master a poker face. And her appearance would never inspire female solidarity. She kept her dark hair pulled back in a tight French braid with the end clipped underneath so a perp couldn’t grab it in a scuffle. And she dressed in bland business attire in an attempt to blend-in in a male dominated career.
Lip gloss, a light coating of mascara, a tiny sterling silver cross necklace, and dainty hoop earrings, were the only visible feminine touches she allowed herself on the job. But underneath her clothes, she wore sexy lingerie—a personal reminder that she was still a desirable woman, despite her lack of any recognizable form of a love life for the past two years.
She smoothed out the frown lines and tried holding a smile. “Miss Gallagher was Dr. Harper’s research assistant. How could you not have met her?”
Ms. Jackson nervously twisted her fingers together. “They worked nights. I work days.”
During the initial interviews, Dr. Harper, Vincent Maxwell—Dr. Harper’s husband—and Gerard Delaroche claimed Miss Gallagher was working the night she was killed. No one mentioned it was her usual shift. And they didn’t explain why Dr. Harper skipped work that night to visit a friend of her husband’s in the middle of the night—a friend named Sonia with no known last name, no phone number, and no address.
So, how the hell did Dr. Harper visit Sonia if she didn’t know her last name or where she lived? Did Sonia know something Maxwell and Harper didn’t want divulged? Was she an employee?
“Do you know a woman named Sonia?” Amber asked Ms. Jackson.
Another blank stare. “No.”
Aside from serial killers and the infrequent, random act of violence, most murder victims were killed for money, vengeance, or sex. And the killer wasn’t normally a stranger. So, who had a motive to kill Tina Gallagher?
The initial investigators believed Delaroche and Harper were having an affair and that Miss Gallagher found out and threatened to tell Dr. Harper’s husband, Vincent Maxwell. Delaroche didn’t want to lose his business partner or his lover so he killed the research assistant to shut her up.
It was a reasonable hypothesis. Richard Baxter—the young security guard also killed that night—could have seen Delaroche lurking outside the lab. That would explain why his body was found stuffed in a janitor’s closet two doors down. It didn’t explain why his throat had been cut—after his body was drained of blood.
According to the autopsy report, there wasn’t enough blood left in his tissues to cause liver mortis. And Axle Travers, the other security guard who’d been working that night, was still missing.
Was Travers involved in the murders? Or had he seen something so terrifying he’d gone into hiding?
Fighting her own lingering fears, Amber held Ms. Jackson’s gaze. “What about Axle Travers? How well did you know him?”
A muscle jumped in Ms. Jackson’s jaw. “I don’t work nights. Ever. I met Axle once. When he came in to fill out a hiring package.”
Maybe Reid was on to something with the tough cop routine.
Amber leaned over the counter and glared. “You do know your bosses. Don’t you?”
Ms. Jackson twisted her fingers together on top of her desk. A flush stained her cheeks, but she showed no overt signs of deceit when she said, “Of course, I’ve met them. They hired me. And they sometimes come in before I get off at five. But I don’t really see much of them either.”
Lifeblood of America was a multi-million dollar business. So, why wasn’t it run like one? Why did the owners and two highly-paid researchers work nights when most everyone else was home sleeping?
Amber pulled a thick pad from her purse and flipped through her notes. Delaroche was the after-hours procurement agent, but Maxwell was CEO. He had no reason to work nights.
The research division of the company was a nine to five operation—nine in the morning to five in the evening. Yet Dr. Harper and Ms. Gallagher worked from nine at night to five in the morning. Why the odd hours? What were they researching?
Did it have something to do with Ms. Gallagher’s death?
“Was Ms. Gallagher working on a special project?” Amber asked.
Ms. Jackson tapped a red-lacquered nail on the counter. “I wouldn’t know.”
No. Probably not. Ms. Jackson was a receptionist, not an executive assistant. “Did Ms. Gallagher always work so late? Or had her hours recently changed?”
Ms. Jackson raised her brows. “Miss Gallagher is—was—Dr. Harper’s lab assistant. And Dr. Harper is married to Mr. Maxwell.”
“And what does that have to do with either of their work schedules?”
Ms. Jackson’s jaw dropped; her brows rose. “You’re kidding. Right? That’s like common knowledge around here. Everyone gossips about it, and you guys haven’t figured it out yet?”
Unease skittered down Amber’s spine. She had a bad feeling. Someone on her team had missed something. But she wasn’t about to admit ignorance or criticize a fellow officer in front of a civilian.
Holding Ms. Jackson’s gaze, she said, “We have boxes of evidence and interview notes. Which piece of information do your co-workers gossip about that you feel is pertinent to Miss Gallagher’s schedule?”
Ms. Jackson rolled her eyes. “Dr. Harper and Miss Gallagher work nights so Dr. Harper can spend time with her husband. Both Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Delaroche have XP.”
“XP?”Amber flipped through her notes again, trying to find the initials, knowing it had nothing to do with computers.
“Xeroderma Pigmentosum,” Ms. Jackson said, as if the answer were obvious. “It’s one of the medical conditions we research here at Lifeblood of America. It’s a rare genetic light sensitivity disorder. People with the condition have to avoid sunlight or risk disfiguring sunburns and fatal skin cancers. You should have known that already.”
That explained Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Delaroche’s insistence that all interviews be conducted before 0800 hours or after 1600 hours—that much, at least, was in the initial interview notes. But there was no mention of XP—or anything else that might explain Ms. Gallagher’s odd hours.
Screw Reid’s bad cop tactics. When Amber tried it, she came across as a bitch.
Forcing a smile, she opted for a conciliatory tone, hoping to regain some of the ground she’d lost. “Like I said, we have a lot of information. But I appreciate you bringing me up to speed.”
She’d rather take the blame for not preparing for the interview than hint at departmental incompetence.
Ms. Jackson pursed her lips in an expression of disapproval. “Well, you should have gone over your notes before coming here.”
The secretary’s attitude tried Amber’s patience. Her smile faltered. “I have a lot of catching up to do. But again, thank you for your assistance.”
“Sure.” Ms. Jackson shrugged. Then she leaned forward on her elbows and lowered her voice to a “between girlfriends” kind of whisper. “You know, I hear a lot of rumors down here. So, if you ever want to know something on an unofficial basis, just ask. I don’t want to get involved or anything like that, but I do hear stuff.”
Amber propped one elbow on the counter and cupped her chin in her hand. She leaned in close, her voice dropping to match Ms. Jackson’s. “Really? What kind of stuff?”
“You know.” Ms. Jackson shrugged again, her eyes darting nervously about the lobby as if she feared someone would overhear. Then her voice dropped even lower. “Stuff like knowing Miss Gallagher and Mr. Delaroche were involved. You knew that. Right?”
No. She didn’t. Everyone on the force assumed Delaroche was involved with Dr. Harper.
“It’s certainly the kind of information that can help with the investigation,” she said as the elevator doors slid open and a tall, middle-aged man stepped out into the lobby. She handed Ms. Jackson her card. “If you hear anything else, please call me.”
Then she turned to meet Reid as he strode forward and introduced himself to the security guard. “Detective Sheridan. And this is my partner, Amber Buckley.”
Amber smiled, trying not to bristle at her partner’s continued lack of respect for her rank.
The security guard took Reid’s hand and nodded. “I’m Grant Simmons, Chief of Security.” He extended his hand to Amber. “Detective?”
“Yes.”
A ghost of a smile flashed across his broad face before he turned toward a security panel next to the elevator door. He swiped his badge. A red LED light blinked yellow. Then he punched in a numeric code and placed his palm over a sensor. The light flashed green and the elevator doors slid open.
“You need a badge and code to go up, but not to come back down.” He stepped inside the elevator and held open the door for Amber and Reid.
“So, we need a babysitter while we’re up there?” Reid asked when the doors slid closed.
“I think I can trust you not to go snooping around unescorted,” Simmons replied. “You couldn’t get into the labs anyway. You don’t have a badge or a code, and your palm hasn’t been scanned into the system.”
“So, you saying these murders were an inside job?” Reid’s tone implied he hadn’t already considered the possibility. Amber knew better. From the beginning, they’d both thought it likely.
Simmons paled. “I’m not accusing anybody. And Axle had nothing to do with the murders.”
“Who said anything about Axle Travers?”
Turning a sick shade of green and looking as if he’d just ratted out a friend, Simmons stared at the elevator control panel and said nothing more.
Reid’s attitude was brusque and his people skills could use a spit-shine, but he was right. Whoever killed Tina Gallagher and Richard Baxter had security clearance at Lifeblood of America.
When the elevator opened on the second floor, Simmons stepped out but kept his hand on the hold button, preventing the doors from sliding shut. Staring straight ahead, he said, “Conference room is the third door on your right. It’s unlocked. You won’t need a code to get in.”
Amber and Reid stepped out. Simmons nodded and pressed a button. The silver doors slid shut, leaving her and Reid alone in the quiet, sterile corridor.
Metal doors with electronic locks and palm pads lined the hall. The stark white corridor smelled faintly of ammonia, formaldehyde, and autoclaves.
Reid wrinkled his nose. “You think anyone ever gets used to that stench?”
“I’ve smelled worse.” The remembered scents evoked memories best forgotten.
A flash of light followed by a hissing boom. Sulfur, melted plastic, and chard flesh tainted the air as Private Piner was thrown to the ground. Clutching his bloody stump with mangled fingers, he screamed, the sound echoing through the deserted streets of an Iraqi village while the severed remains of his left leg landed fifteen feet away in a wet pile of pulpy flesh and splintered bone.
Pushing the painful memory aside, Amber cleared the sour taste of bile from her throat and said, “Lifeblood is more than a non-profit blood and tissue bank. They’ve expanded into research, which accounts for the smells. I guess Maxwell and Delaroche finally decided to use their resources to help themselves.”
Sympathy ate at the tough cop persona she projected to the world, tightening her raw throat even more. She couldn’t imagine never going into the sunlight without layers of protective clothing, dark glasses, and massive amounts of sunblock.
Were Vincent Maxwell and Gerard Delaroche deathly pale? Did sores and lesions mar their skin?
Reid looked at her askance. “What are talking about?”
She blinked, refocusing on the case. “Maxwell and Delaroche have a rare genetic condition called XP.”
She repeated what Ms. Jackson said about xeroderma pigmentosum. She didn’t tell her partner Delaroche had been involved with Tina Gallagher. Reid didn’t need another reason to believe the man guilty. He needed an open mind to analyze the evidence.
He pulled a face. “So, they’re like vampires or something. They can only come out after sunset?”
“No,” she said with disgust as an unexpected shiver crawled down her spine. Richard Baxter’s autopsy report had raised some frightening questions.
Complete exsanguination.
The medical examiner had found two puncture marks in the carotid artery beneath the knife wound. Dr. Hall believed the assailant had used a trocar to kill Mr. Baxter and drain his body of blood before slashing his throat with a knife.
But what had the killer done with the blood? And why hadn’t Tina Gallagher been killed in a like manner?
Two assailants? Or something far more terrifying?
Blood filled her vision. She blinked to clear the nightmarish image from her mind, pushing the memories aside. “They have a medical condition, Reid.”
“Maybe they just think they’re vampires. It would explain the security guard’s death. If the two of them actually drink blood…”
“There’s no proof either of them were even involved in the murders. And Miss Gallagher’s blood was all over the lobby.” Despite her words, she envisioned cloaked figures with lethal fangs skulking in the dark in search of prey. The crazy-ass images didn’t fade from her mind until they reached the only door in the corridor with a blinking, green LED.
Reid turned the handle and pushed open the door without knocking. Amber would have offered an apology to the men inside for her partner’s rude behavior had her mouth not gone dry.
“The cops, I presume?” A tall dark-haired man with a goatee and slight accent said.
He wore his shoulder-length hair in a ponytail and his coffee-colored eyes seemed to look into her soul. His complexion was only slightly pale but it in no way detracted from his good looks. But the man beside him was a real piece of eye candy. And his skin was definitely not marred.
Shorter but much broader and muscular, he was built like a steroid-enhanced body builder without the overly developed bone structure in his face. His neck was of normal size and although his cheekbones were chiseled and his jaw square, he didn’t look like a low-browed Neanderthal. In fact, he was probably one of the most handsome men Amber had ever seen.
Silver streaks highlighted his brown hair and when he turned those baby blues on her, she felt as if she’d been tasered in the gut—only there wasn’t any pain. But damn if her brain didn’t react in the same confused fashion.
After the first electric jolt, her brain-to-body signals became jumbled, and she was incapable of interpreting nerve impulses. She couldn’t think and she couldn’t move. She just stared into Gerard Delaroche’s eyes while a slow sensual heat bathed her body, turning her knees to mush.