“To the dead.” She hesitated, frowning lightly. “To her twin sister.”
Emma Pierce was listed as an only child, but she was also adopted. So it might be worth checking to see if a mistake had been made. “Why is she killing these people?”
“They should not exist.”
Her breathing was becoming too shallow, too quick. As much as he needed the insights, he couldn’t let her continue. Not while she was still clearing the Jadrone from her system.
“Sam.” He touched her arm lightly and she jumped.
Her gaze leapt to his, her expression confused and just a touch frightened. “What happened?”
“You were reading the room. Or the emotions in the room.”
A shudder ran through her. “It felt like I was an observer in someone else’s dream. I could see and hear what was going on, but I couldn’t intervene.”
He touched her cheek, gently wiping away a drop of sweat. “I think those psychic gifts you don’t have are starting to come to the surface.”
She stared at him and then shook her head. “Impossible! I was tested.”
“The tests can be skewed. I think we should do more.”
She reeled back as if he’d hit her. “No more tests. You promised!”
“I also promised to help you get answers about your past. That isn’t going to happen unless you start cooperating.”
“No.” She crossed her arms, her look mutinous. “The last batch of tests almost killed me. I won’t do any more.”
She was talking about the tests that the bastard she’d once called her partner had performed. “Jack didn’t care about you, only what you were and how he could use you.”
“And are you so very different, Assistant Director?”
The barb struck home and his anger surged. O’Neal chose that moment to walk into the room, but he stopped abruptly, his gaze darting from Gabriel to Sam.
“Everything all right, sir?”
“Fine.” Gabriel somehow managed to keep his voice even. “We found a bloody sweatshirt in the trash can. There is blood sprayed across the mirror. I want samples taken from both and sent to the labs ASAP. And next time, O’Neal, kindly make sure you do a proper sweep of the crime scene.”
The detective flushed and nodded, and Gabriel shoved his hands in his pockets and walked from the room. He heard Sam murmur something to O’Neal, then her footsteps as she followed.
He punched the elevator button. She stopped behind him, her gaze burning deep into his back.
“If you’ve got something to say, then say it,” she said. “Don’t take your anger out on other people.”
Normally, he didn’t, but she had an uncanny knack of seeing what others didn’t, and it both irritated and alarmed him. He turned to face her.
“I’m not Jack. I’m not using you for my own purposes. If I were, I’d keep you as a partner.”
She crossed her arms, her expression cynical. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
It wasn’t supposed to make her feel anything. “Sam, that birth certificate Jack gave you might be a fake.”
“I know that.”
“Then you should realize that the only true clue we may ever get lies in uncovering whatever that unknown chromosome in your system is. Remember, someone looped Finley’s computer to stop us from accessing the test results. They may very well have bombed Central Security for the same reason.” He hesitated, then added, “Damn it, Sam, don’t you want to know what you are?”
She rubbed her arms and stared at him for several moments. “Who I am, yes. What I am? I don’t know.” Her voice was soft, face troubled. “I really don’t know.”
“Then you’d better decide quickly. People died because of the secrets in your past. How many more have to do so before you find the courage to face what you might be?”
She stiffened. “You’re a bastard, do you know that?”
“Maybe I am. But at least I’m a realistic bastard.”
They waited in silence for the elevator, then got in and headed back to the ground floor. She led the way out of the building. The rain pelted down, a cold gray curtain that quickly drenched them both. Not that she seemed to take much notice as she marched up the street to the nearest cab rank.
“What now?” she muttered, once they were both inside the cab.
“Now we go back to my place and view the security tapes from both Harry Maxwell’s building and this one.” The address he punched into the console was hers—she’d catch a cold, or worse, if she stayed in her current clothes, and he didn’t have anything that would even come close to fitting her.
“Well, gee, don’t you know how to show a girl a good time?”
He ignored the sarcasm in her voice. “We’ll stop and get some takeout, too. There’s not much in the way of edible food at my place.”
“There’s a surprise.”
She crossed her arms and stared out the side window, angry as all hell and fighting not to show it. He ran a hand through his wet hair and half-wished he could take back the words he’d said in anger. But, damn it, if she didn’t start investigating just who and what she was, all hell could break loose. Her psychic gifts were coming to the surface. Why that was happening now, when she was almost thirty, he didn’t know. But Sethanon had feared the emergence of those gifts enough to place at least one guard on her—though, oddly enough, he seemed reluctant to harm her physically.
It made no sense. Nothing about her past made any sense.
But he had a bad feeling they’d better start finding some answers. Jack had warned them that a war was starting, a war in which Sethanon planned to subjugate the human race as well as any nonhumans who sided with them, and he had a feeling Sam was a key to what might happen. Why else would Sethanon be so interested in her? And if she was a key, then he sure as hell was going to keep forcing her to chase her past and the memories she’d lost. Because they could be very important for everyone’s survival. So perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was no better than Jack.
Except that she’d liked Jack. And she sure as hell did not like him.
Which was a damn shame, because if she weren’t his partner, he would have been tempted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.
—
Sam leaned back in the chair and stretched. She’d been sitting at this console for close to ten hours and her butt felt numb. As numb as her mind.
She rubbed her forehead. The ache had set in behind her eyes again, and her stomach was beginning to cramp—probably as a result of all the coffee Gabriel had given her in the last few hours.
It was time to give her eyes another break. Sighing, she turned away from the console. His apartment wasn’t what she’d expected. Given his long hours, and the time he spent working on Federation projects, she’d expected his apartment to be sterile—a place where he came to sleep and regain strength, and nothing more.
Situated in Parkville, opposite the grand old Royal Park, the two-story apartment block was a carefully renovated remnant of the Victorian age. Gabriel owned the whole top floor, and the view from the front windows was a sea of green. It was like living in the treetops, she mused, and wondered if that was why he’d bought it. Perhaps it appeased some need in his hawk soul.
The color scheme within the apartment complemented the leafy view, with sandstone-colored walls and faded turquoise doors and frames. Brightly patterned rugs were scattered across the polished floorboards, topped by dark blue leather sofas that had seen better times. It reminded her of the southwestern décor in Stephan’s house and yet, oddly enough, there were no photos of Stephan here—no photos of any family. Maybe it was a precautionary measure. Maybe he didn’t want to risk anyone breaking in and discovering just whom he was related to. Certainly that information wasn’t available on any computer; she’d checked the SIU files some weeks back.
Gabriel himself used the com-unit in the kitchen. His long legs, crossed at the feet, were stretched out under the table. No doubt he’d wander back in soon with m
ore coffee to keep her awake.
The com-unit pinged softly. The tape had finished rewinding. She turned around. “Fast-forward to twelve fifteen, then play.”
The murderer must have arrived sometime between then and twelve thirty. The doctor had patients booked up until twelve. Allowing the usual ten or fifteen minutes per patient, the last appointment would have walked out around twelve fifteen. The postman—or woman, as was the case here—had walked in at twelve eighteen, and the doctor had been alive and alone.
“Playing,” the com-unit intoned.
She leaned sideways against the desk, propping her head up with her hand. This was the fourth time she’d watched this particular run of film. She could just about cue each person.
Yawning hugely, she watched the postwoman, dressed in a yellow raincoat, carry a handful of letters and a small parcel into the doctor’s office. On the far edge of the screen, a man in a badly cut blue suit headed toward the stairs. Nothing further happened for a good five minutes; then the lunchtime rush began.
The yellow-clad postwoman walked back out. She glanced at the clock. Twelve twenty-two. After that, nothing. People moved in and out of the foyer, but no one went near the doctor’s office. The initial report set the time of death as twelve thirty-one—nine minutes after the postwoman had left. Given the extent of the doctor’s wounds, and the fact that she’d died reasonably quickly, it was doubtful whether the postwoman could have been involved. Besides, there wasn’t a speck of blood to be seen on her uniform.
“Rewind tape to twelve twenty-two.”
The computer hummed briefly. “Tape rewound.”
“Find an ID on this woman.” She pointed to the postwoman. Her details were probably in the initial report, but Gabriel had the folder and she didn’t want to walk across the room to check.
“Search started.”
She yawned again and glanced at her watch. It was nearly two o’clock. Surely Gabriel would let her go home soon and get some rest. Twelve hours had just about passed and she seriously needed sleep. Her brain felt like mush.
The tape continued running. She leaned on her hand again and watched it. People flowed through the foyer. A sandwich trolley came out of the elevator and was briefly mobbed by those few who didn’t go out for lunch. She rubbed her forehead again, trying to ease the growing ache between her eyes. It didn’t help.
“Gabriel, have you got any painkillers?”
“Yep. Hang on, and I’ll get you some.” His chair scuffed against the floorboards, then his footsteps moved across the kitchen. She returned her gaze to the screen. And saw the doctor walk out of the office.
At twelve forty-eight.
Seventeen minutes after she’d been murdered.
THE KILLER WAS A MULTI-SHIFTER, Sam thought, staring at the woman on the screen. The counterfeit doctor wore a knee-length white coat and carried a plastic bag in her right hand. She kept her head down, loose brown hair all but covering her face, and headed quickly for the stairs.
“Rewind tape one minute, then freeze,” she said, and glanced up as Gabriel walked into the room. “I think I’ve found your killer.”
He handed her two painkillers and a glass of water, then leaned over the back of her chair and studied the image frozen on the com-screen.
“A shapeshifter?”
“A multi-shifter,” she corrected, “not that it comes as much of a surprise. You said in your report that you suspected a shifter was involved.”
He squatted down beside her chair, his face almost level with hers. “We suspected it, but this is the first evidence we’ve found to confirm it.”
She frowned. “You found nothing on any of the other tapes?”
“No.” His breath washed warmth across her face. “No evidence of anyone going in. The only form of exit appears to be the small hole cut into the bathroom windows.”
“But that makes no sense.” If the killer was a multi-shifter, how the hell was she getting away from the crime scene if not through any doors? “A small hole cut in a window points toward a shapechanger, not a shifter. Can someone be both?”
“Yes, but there are only three registered in Australia, and all those are accounted for.”
“But isn’t it possible that one or two have been missed?”
“Maybe.” He scrubbed a hand across the dark line of stubble on his chin. “Did anyone enter the office close to the time of the murder?”
“The postwoman, but she came out at twelve twenty-two. I’ve begun an ID search.”
“Good. Have you checked the tapes for the seventh floor?”
“Not yet.”
He looked at the screen. “Display tape seven. Fast-forward to twelve forty-eight p.m.”
The screen went blank. Gabriel went against current trends, having no character as the face of his com-units. No time for fun, she thought, even for something as minor as that.
The seventh-floor tape began to roll. The counterfeit doctor came into sight, quickly disappearing into the ladies’ restroom. She was out four minutes later, hair wet but tied back off her face and still wearing the white coat. The elevator answered her call almost immediately. The doctor joined several other people already standing in the lift and was whisked away.
“Why keep the coat?” She met his gaze. “Why not dump it with the sweater?”
“Maybe she had nothing else to wear.”
“But why not? This woman is meticulous. She gets in and out of crime scenes without being spotted—at least not until now. She knows there are security cams watching, and she knows how to get around them. Her timing with the doctor was perfect. So why wouldn’t she pack a change of clothes?”
A smile touched his lips. “There’s a limit to what you can hide when you shift form, you know.”
She raised her eyebrows. “There is?”
He nodded. “Clothes don’t change. Nor do watches, or shoes or bloodstained sweaters. The body image is all that shifts.”
“But what about shapechangers? You grow feathers and talons, for Christ’s sake. And I’ve never seen you wearing size-ten boots in your hawk form.”
His smile widened, touching the corners of his eyes. “Nor will you. The rules vary for changers. No one knows why. It’s just a fact that whatever we carry on our person becomes integrated within the animal persona.”
“Weird.” She frowned at the screen for a moment. “But that still doesn’t answer my original question.”
“You suggested in the doctor’s office that the killer was angry. Maybe she didn’t bring a change of clothes simply because she thought she was in control—until confronted by the doctor wearing a white coat.”
“So our killer has an unpleasant history with doctors, might be a doctor herself, and is definitely a multi-shifter.” She met his gaze. This close, flecks of green gleamed in the warm hazel depths of his eyes. “How many multi-shifters has the SIU got on file?”
“Worldwide? Several hundred, at least.”
“I thought you said multi-shifters were rare.”
“They are, compared to the number of regular shifters.”
“Yeah, right.” What other half-truths had he fed her? “How many of those have twins?”
He shrugged. “Twins run in families. It’s not a side effect of being a shifter.”
“So the first thing we do is search the files and see how many multi-shifter twins we have on record.”
The warmth fled from his face. “The first thing you do,” he corrected softly. “After you get some sleep, that is.”
He was locking her out again—not that she was entirely surprised. He’d warned her of his intentions, after all.
“You can push as far as you like. I’m not quitting and I’m not giving up.” Despite an effort to keep her voice flat, a hint of anger crept in. It was tempting, so tempting, to add that she wasn’t going to die on him like his other partners had, but she held back. Maybe it was cowardice, or maybe it was instinct, but something suggested it was better not to say anything until h
e did.
He didn’t reply, but simply rose to his feet and held out a hand.
She ignored it and rose. She brushed past him, trying to ignore the tingling warmth that resulted from such a brief contact, and walked over to the coffee table to collect her bag. “There’s a cab rank down the street. I’ll catch a ride there.”
“It’s two thirty in the morning.”
“And I’m a cop with a gun. I think I can manage to survive a three-minute walk in the dark.”
“I have no problem driving you home.”
“But I have.” She snorted softly, then added, “You can’t play it both ways, Gabriel.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I am merely offering you a ride home. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Fine,” he muttered, and made an oddly violent motion with his hand. “Go, then.”
She walked out. And, for the second time in twenty-four hours, slammed a door shut with wall-shaking force.
—
Gabriel grabbed his coat, then set his apartment’s alarm sensors as he walked out the door. Once he reached the street, he changed shape and soared into the night skies.
He had no doubt Sam could survive the three-minute walk to the cab rank. Under normal conditions, he’d expect her to survive just about anything the streets could throw at her. But in the last twenty-four hours she’d been given an overdose of Jadrone and had had very little sleep. Her reflexes, strength, even alertness would be compromised. If someone did actually want to take her out, it would be the perfect time.
He spotted her within minutes—an angry-looking shadow striding toward the cab rank. He circled slowly while she climbed into the vehicle, then followed it through the quiet city streets.
She got home without incident. He waited until the lights went on in her apartment, then wheeled away and headed for his brother’s place in Toorak.
A bleary-eyed Stephan opened the door as Gabriel walked up the steps.
“Do you know what time it is?” Stephan asked.
“Yeah. It’s time for a drink.” Gabriel stopped on the top step and regarded his twin steadily. The shadows under Stephan’s eyes were darker than ever, but at least he no longer looked like death. “Why are you up?”