What did surprise him was the lack of any sort of violence. She looked like she’d simply lain down in the middle of the floor and quietly passed away.
In his experience, lovely young women who were killed on Sunday morning were beaten to death by a jealous boyfriend or raped and killed by a passing psycho.
Not . . . what?
His brows jerked together as he took a swift inventory of the kitchen, noting everything was in pristine place, not so much as a coffee mug left in the sink. It could be the female never used the kitchen, preferring to eat out, or at her lover’s place. It could be she was OCD and her kitchen was always spotless.
But his gut was telling him that she hadn’t lived here long enough to stop caring if the place was a mess.
“Hola, O’Conner. Looking a little rough around the edges,” the silver-haired coroner drawled, unfolding a white sheet to drape it over the body. “Heard that Susan found herself a decent man to make an honest woman of her.”
Yeah, so decent he was banging her in Duncan’s own bed.
Flipping off his companion, Duncan opened the file and glanced through the meager info that had been gathered on the female.
“Who found the body?”
“A silent alarm was tripped.”
“Cause of death?”
“She’s missing her heart.”
Duncan froze, his gaze searching the victim’s unmarred skin and the obvious lack of blood.
“How the hell could she be missing her heart?”
“I don’t know,” Frank Sanchez admitted, the bite in his raspy voice expressing his opinion of “I don’t know.” “But I ran the portable MRI over her three times to be sure.”
The older man could be a pain in the ass to work with, but he knew his shit. Nothing got past his eagle gaze. If he said the female was missing her heart, then she was missing her heart.
Crap. Duncan hated mysteries.
“No DNA?”
“It’s clean.” Another growl as Frank gathered the tools of his trade to pack them in a black leather bag. “Too clean.”
“So a freak?”
“That would be my guess.”
Confused, Duncan read through the file.
Leah Meadows.
Twenty-six.
Single, originally from Little Rock.
Current occupation, dancer at the Rabbit Hutch.
That would explain her location, he cynically concluded. Her salary as a dancer wouldn’t cover the rent, but the clients who frequented the high-end strip club would easily be able to afford this place to keep a current mistress.
It didn’t, however, explain why she was lying naked in her kitchen without her heart.
Lifting his head, he met Frank’s troubled gaze. “You made the call?”
The older man grimaced, not needing any further explanation.
When there was a murder that didn’t have an eyewitness or a legitimate suspect, it was protocol to call in one of the mutants. And when it might involve another mutant, they were called ASAP.
“Yep. She should be—”
On cue one of the uniforms stepped into the kitchen. “The necro is here.”
“Perfect timing,” Duncan muttered. “Show her in.” For whatever reason, necros were almost always females.
The young man nodded, disappearing back down the hallway while Frank snapped shut his black bag.
“That’s my cue for a quick exit.”
Duncan grinned. “Scared?”
“Damned straight,” the older man said without apology. “Freaks give me the heebie-jeebies. I don’t know how you can be in the same room with one.”
A bitter smile touched Duncan’s lips. Like draws to like . . .
No. He grimly crushed the mocking words in the back of his aching head. He wasn’t like those mutants from Valhalla.
Lots of people could see the souls of others, couldn’t they?
He swallowed his grim urge to laugh, tilting his head toward the sheet on the floor. “You can be in the same room with a corpse, but not a necro?”
Frank shrugged. “I respect the dead. No one should be screwing around with their heads.”
“Even if it takes a murderer off the streets?”
“I like getting my criminals the old-fashioned way. Necros should be abolished along with the rest of the—”
“I prefer the term ‘diviner’ if you don’t mind,” a soft, compelling voice whispered through the room, turning both men toward the door like a magnet.
Even prepared, Duncan felt the air being jerked from his lungs at the sight of Callie Brown.
It wasn’t just that she was a stunning beauty with her short, spiky hair that was so dark red it shimmered like fire in the sunlight. Her pale features were perfectly carved with a sensual invitation for a mouth and a proud nose.
And her body . . . hell, it was slender with just enough curves to make a man think of black silk sheets and long weekends. Today it was displayed to perfection in a pair of black spandex pants and a white stretchy top.
But for Duncan it was the white aura that flickered around her diminutive body that made his blood burn.
So pure. So completely and utterly innocent.
And like any bastard, he ached to be the one who debauched that wholesomeness even as he savored the rare beauty of her soul.
“Shit,” Frank muttered, heading for the door leading to the back patio. “Adios, amigo.”
His entire body vibrating with an awareness that went way beyond sexual attraction, Duncan barely noticed the hasty departure of the coroner. Not that he wouldn’t have Callie flat on her back and her legs wrapped around his waist with the least hint of encouragement.
It was a sensation that should have scared the hell out of him. Instead a wicked smile curved his lips.
“Hello, Callie.”
She turned her head, regarding him through the reflective sunglasses that hid her eyes, her expression unreadable.
On the half dozen occasions Duncan had worked with Callie, he’d never seen her be anything but serene. Which, of course, only encouraged him to try and provoke a response from her. Anything to know there was a flesh and blood woman beneath that image of calm.
Why it was so important to find that woman was another one of those things he put on the list of “don’t fucking care.”
“Sergeant O’Conner,” she said, moving with an unearthly grace to stand beside the sheet.
“Duncan,” he insisted, shifting to stand across the body, his gaze never leaving Callie’s pale face.
“Has the body been processed?”
“As much as can be done in the field. You’re free to do your thing.”
“Time of death?”
“At least an hour ago.”
“Then I should have time.” She knelt down, reaching for the edge of the sheet. “The spark—”
“Yeah, no need explain.” He held up a restraining hand. He might not share the prejudices of most of society against the freaks, but that didn’t mean he wanted an insider’s guide to necromancy. Christ. The mere thought made his stomach clench. “Just see what you can do.”
“Fine.” Cool, indifferent. Then her body tensed. “So young,” she murmured softly.
“Twenty-six.” He crouched down, studying her silken skin unmarred by wrinkles. “Older than you?”
“A woman never shares that information.”
“You share nothing.”
“Do you blame me?”
His lips twisted at the smooth thrust. Most people went out of their way to avoid freaks, but there were others who thought the only good freak was a dead freak. There were even a handful of cults where people trained to kill them. Mostly simpleminded idiots who needed someone to tell them what to think and angry outcasts who had nowhere else to go, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous.