Blood Score Part 16

"You drive me crazy, mon amour. You are the only man I know who would refuse me." Her pout vanished, replaced by a wicked smile. "Except in my dreams. There, you do exactly as I say."

Cronan knew about Simone and dreams. She hadn't exactly been a stranger to his nights.

"When your baby sister was murdered, you appreciated my resolving her case with discretion. Olivia has a family, people who still love her and need closure. Her murder has connections to this place, Simone. I need you to be honest with me. No games. Can you do that?"

She stared at him and for an instant he saw a familiar hurt glistening in her eyes. Simone knew what it meant to lose someone to violence. She took a deep breath and got off his lap to sit next to him. She made no attempt to retrieve her robe.

"What do you need to know?" She crossed her legs and leaned toward him, playing with his collar. "I make no promises, but I understand."

"The first time I told you about Olivia Davenport and showed you a picture of her, you recognized her face. You said she wasn't a regular, but that she'd been into fantasies. Were you telling me the truth?"

Simone flinched and smiled with a shrug as if she'd been caught in a harmless fib.

"I protect my clients, Gabriel. I am sad for this girl's family, but she was not one of my regulars. I told you that."

"Not good enough."

"What do you want from me?" she demanded. "She has no connection to my private club. She was not a member."

"But maybe her killer was."

"You push me, Gabriel. This is my business, and it demands discretion. It does not work otherwise. I could lose everything if you insist on linking me to the death of this unfortunate girl." This time she looked angry. "If you force me to choose between my clients and you, you will lose. I will not betray my people. Not even for you."

Cronan remembered that the first time he'd come to Chez Moreau for answers about Olivia, he had believed the girl was the main link to Simone's and had been into the kinky stuff. He'd asked Simone about Ethan Chandler, only referring to him as *a blind guy' in an attempt to respect his reputation and privacy. Now that he had his doubts about the dark side to Olivia, he had other questions-and other names to ask of Simone.

"Is Ethan Chandler one of your people?"

Simone narrowed her eyes and said, "Like I told you, I do not betray my people. N'est-ce pas?"

Gabriel didn't have to speak French to understand what she meant about Chandler, but the beautiful Simone was done talking to a cop. Her actual words weren't what had intrigued him. It was more what he saw in her eyes and what she didn't say that made him wonder what she still held back.

Downtown Chicago 2:20 AM.

Tim McFarland knew he hadn't been clever at all. Thanks to Ethan Chandler and his brainless sycophants, his evening had ended in complete humiliation. They probably got a laugh at how things turned out. For all he knew, they could've set him up by slipping a pa.s.s under his door and left his name off the master list to embarra.s.s him. The jerk that made the scene had a grudge against him. Good neighbor policy, my a.s.s. That had to come from Ethan.

Stupid! Stupid!

Sitting in the dark, in the room he'd made special for his obsession, Tim gave up drinking from a gla.s.s and flung the fine crystal across the room, targeting his favorite black and white poster of the violinist. The gla.s.s shattered and sprayed shards in all directions, bleeding liquor down the image like tears. From every wall, the beautiful young man stared back at Tim.

Only now it felt as if he were being mocked.

Slouched on a sofa still wearing his disheveled suit-the one he'd meticulously cleaned and pressed to wear for the evening-Tim raised the bottle to his lips and sucked down the pricey Scotch that Ethan Chandler had rejected. It had been his gift, the one he'd been so clever in buying for his famous neighbor. As he drank, he queued up the last recording he'd made of Ethan in the shower, the only surveillance video he had at his residence. He'd been very careful to keep his full collection hidden at his lake house.

He liked watching Ethan to the strains of the soloist's violin music, but not tonight. The surveillance footage had no sound. Light from the TV screen flickered over Tim as he sat in the shadows and raised the bottle to his mouth.

I swear to G.o.d, I thought you were better. That mantra repeated in Tim's head as he slugged down another gulp of Scotch.

Ethan Chandler deserved the best. That included being surrounded with an entourage of people who exemplified the image he should cultivate with more care. Instead, he had barbaric thugs and arrogant stupid b.i.t.c.hes near him. Being young and inexperienced shouldn't be an excuse for allowing social atrocities to happen under his nose.

This wasn't over. No matter how much he drank, Tim couldn't let it go. Ethan would be dead wrong if he thought he could dismiss him that easily.

You have no idea what you've done, but you will.

Tim let his anger fester. When he couldn't look at Ethan's face without his heart breaking, he threw the bottle of Scotch and smashed it against the nearest wall. The expensive liquor splattered across the many photos of Ethan.

Tim thought of his treasure trove of digital recordings of Ethan that he had stored at his lake house. He made up his mind to spend the weekend searching through his favorite recordings, the ones that Ethan would hate to go public. He had enough to ruin the young man, but perhaps with a little persuasion, Ethan might realize how important it would be to keep him as a close and very satisfied friend. Until now he'd been discreet in savoring the digital recordings and keeping them to himself, but if Ethan kept him at a distance, things could change.

From the recordings he'd seen that the young man had given his body to others. Why not to him, too? That wouldn't be blackmail, would it? Not between consenting adults.

With a headache coming on, Tim had had enough misery for one night. When he stood too fast, he got dizzy and had to steady himself. His stomach felt queasy when he looked at the mess. Screw it! He'd clean up later. He left everything as it was before he closed the door on his private room. Tomorrow he'd figure out what to do to make Ethan regret everything he'd done to mortify him.

Getting ready for bed, he stumbled toward his front entry to turn out the light and noticed something white on the floor. A note had been slipped under his door. The envelope had a typed message on the outside-two words that changed everything.

I'm sorry Tim's breath caught in his throat, and his hands trembled as he read the letter inside.

My solo performance on the rooftop is meant for only you Tears came to his eyes when he realized who must have sent the note. Ethan hadn't signed it, but who else could it be from? He'd seen the boy use a computer in his home, speaking into a headset. Although his surveillance gear didn't record sound, he suspected Ethan had technology to overcome his handicap through voice recognition software. He'd looked it up on the Internet once when he wanted to understand the challenges the boy had in his life. It made him admire the musician more.

After only a quick glance in the foyer mirror to wipe his face, Tim stuffed the note in his pocket and locked the door behind him. His mind filled with images of Ethan in the shower, and when he pictured what the boy would look like under the moonlight on the roof, he got hard.

Chapter 12.

Downtown Chicago 2:40 AM.

Tim took the elevator to the rooftop level. Once he got past the lights at the bank of elevators, only dim security beacons were on this time of night and glowed down the corridor that led to the roof exit. He had to enter a pa.s.s code for residents to open the secured door, but once he got outside he heard the sweet sounds of Ethan's music wafting on the night air. It came from a dark patio to his right that was discreetly around the corner and secluded.

Perfect.

His body reacted to the music. That particular song had been a personal favorite of his, one that he'd paired with his preferred recordings of Ethan. He would time his e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n with the crescendo. It felt as if Ethan knew his darkest secret and wanted to be a part of it now.

As Tim rounded the corner, he saw a single rose on a patio table. Ethan's music came from an iPod with an open bottle of wine and two gla.s.ses next to the long-stemmed flower. When he got closer, he noticed another note under the bottle.

Start without me I'm working up the courage to come to you I won't let you down this time Ethan Tim smiled as he read the note again. This time the boy had used his name. He found the musician's shyness very charming and wondered if he would be Ethan's first male lover. He poured a gla.s.s of the Merlot and downed the wine far too quickly to savor it as he gazed across the roof deck and imagined what he would do to Ethan to make their first time unforgettable. He tested the st.u.r.diness of the table and thought of ways he could use the velvety smooth rose pedals until he had to quit stirring his imagination.

This time, being with Ethan would be real.

When the music came to its memorable climax-and his blood warmed his body to a fevered pitch-he had to slow things down. He felt dizzy with his excitement and too much liquor. Now he mixed it with wine. s.h.i.t!

He imagined the horrors of coming too fast or not getting it up and keeping it up for a boy who'd been his fantasy for years. What would he do if that happened? He collapsed to a chair, out of breath. The rooftop spun, and the city lights blurred. That's when he heard the door open and shut with a faint creak. Footsteps crunched the gravel and got louder.

Tim tried to keep his head up as a black silhouette came toward him. He squinted to focus, but the shadow blurred into a swelling darkness. He fought to stay conscious, until he realized he couldn't move. Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Morning The call from dispatch came as Angel headed out her front door and locked it behind her.

"Detective Ramirez." She answered her cell knowing it wouldn't be good news.

Hearing the words that a dead body had been reported wasn't new, but when she recognized the building address as Ethan Chandler's, she nearly lost it.

"Anyone ID the body?" Her voice cracked and she felt sick.

"No ID yet. DB didn't have a wallet on his person. Looks like an apparent suicide. That's all I know."

Angel ended the call and got into her vehicle. After she caught a glimpse of her eyes in the rearview mirror, she almost didn't recognize her face. She tried Gabe on his cell, but when her call rolled into his voice mail, she didn't leave a message. Angel headed straight for the scene.

The drive downtown took all her concentration. Every stoplight that didn't go her way grated on her nerves. Her mind made things worse when she pictured Ethan as a corpse with dead filmy eyes. His concert music played in the background of her memory, a haunting and brooding undertone to the horror that crowded her mind. Only a few blocks from the building, she gripped the wheel tighter to keep her hands from shaking.

With cops called to the building and the promise of a dead body on premises, reporters were gathered like sharks on a feeding frenzy circling the smell of blood. Angel didn't look any of them in the eye as she shoved through the line and headed inside to find her partner.

A cop in uniform checked her ID and let her into the building, saying, "The body is on the roof, but evidence techs are also at the vic's residence. The elevators are-"

Angel interrupted him. "Which residence?"

"I don't have a number, Detective. All I have is the floor."

When he gave her the same floor as Ethan's place, she felt her stomach clench. Angel got on the elevator and punched a b.u.t.ton with her game face on, something she'd learned from Gabe.

Cronan had been delayed getting to the scene because of a phone call from the chief. Another body linked to the Olivia Davenport case hadn't improved the man's disposition.

"I want results, Cronan. The media is rippin' me a new one."

Cronan didn't appreciate the visual.

"We can't have that, sir."

He listened and gave the man what a.s.surances he could before he ended the call. When he got to the scene only minutes ago, he heard that Angel hadn't arrived yet. That gave him time to grab a quick look at the body before he called his partner to break the news, good or bad. A dead body was always bad news to someone-especially the dead guy-but if the DB turned out to be Chandler, Cronan wanted a head start to figure out how to soften the blow for Angel. She'd take it hard.

After he saw the body, he staked out a quiet spot on the top floor and was about to call his partner when he heard the ding of the elevator doors. Cronan caught a glimpse of Angel down the corridor when she fixed her eyes on him. She would've looked normal to anyone else. Her face was all business, but he knew better. He closed the gap between them and blocked her as she craned her neck to see past him.

"It's not him," he told her in a hushed voice. When she still pressed to get by him, he repeated, "It's not the fiddle player. It's that neighbor, Tim McFarland. I recognized him from the concert."

Angel stopped and looked at him. A subtle touch of relief warmed her eyes before the cop in her took over. When she was ready, he headed out the open exit door and escorted her to the body. Evidence techs hovered over the corpse. The ME hadn't bagged the body. He'd been waiting for them.

"Well, McFarland can't be a fluke. Is this our case?" Angel asked. "It's gotta be connected to Olivia Davenport."

"Yeah, it's ours. I already heard that from the chief. Apparently the media is reinventing his anatomy. He wants the attention to go away."

Cronan pulled on his crime scene gloves and Angel did the same as they approached the body. Tim McFarland lay sprawled at a roof deck table, barely confined to a chair. His head and neck were tilted back at an odd angle, with his mouth gaped wide. He stared into the sky with his eyes dry and stuck open. A bloodied knife-something many men carried folded in their pockets-had been dropped at his feet with the blade open. A thick dark puddle of congealed blood had drained onto the gravel and made a gruesome pool beneath him.

Deep gashes, cut length-wise, had been carved into his wrists. The slashes shredded his flesh and exposed muscle and bone.

"If the guy intended to off himself, he wasn't doing it half way."

Cronan used the word *if'' because he wasn't prepared to call it a suicide. He had a hard time understanding how a guy could mutilate his body with a knife and wait for his life to drain when a well-placed bullet would've done the trick in a split second. Hacking into your own flesh had to hurt. d.a.m.n. When he leaned toward the body to get a closer look, he smelled the potent odor of stale booze mixed with the stench of blood. Not even the fresh air masked the smell.

The liquor might've numbed the pain, but why come to the roof to do the deed?

"Looks like he's wearing the same suit as he had on last night," Angel said. "You check his pockets yet?"

"Techs did. They bagged what they found. He had nothing in them except this."

Cronan handed her an evidence bag with an envelope and a note inside. The envelope had the words *I'm sorry' typed across it and the note inside read, *My solo performance on the rooftop is meant for only you.'

"This sounds like he intended it for someone specific. It reads like a suicide note, but is it?" she asked.

"Don't know. Good question."

He liked that Angel hadn't jumped to the easy conclusion that McFarland had punched his own ticket. She questioned everything as he did.

"He reeks of booze, but there's not a bottle in sight. Why did he stumble to the roof to finish it?" Cronan looked around. "There's nothing up here except a few tables and chairs. Where did he get soused?"

"I can answer that." Crime scene tech, Sam O'Brien, joined them. "Looks like he pounded a few at his place. He was p.i.s.sed, too. He busted a bottle of the expensive stuff, but you gotta check out what else we found there."

As they headed for the elevators, Cronan thought about the contents in the dead guy's pockets. Sometimes it wasn't what was there, but what was missing that raised more questions.

"The guy came to the roof with nothing except a knife to slice and dice and a note stuffed in his pocket, but something was missing. He didn't have a key to his place."

"Guess he didn't figure on making a round trip. We had to get the manager to open his door," O'Brien said.

"Was his front door dead-bolted?" Cronan asked. "You'd need a key for that."

"Now that you mention it, that is strange." O'Brien furrowed his brow. "The manager had to unlock the deadbolt. I saw him."

Cronan made a note of the key anomaly and so did his partner.

"Is this door always locked?" Angel pointed to the exit leading to the rooftop as they walked back through it. "Looks like residents have to enter a code to open it."

"Yeah, rooftop access is secured, but it's a code they all have. Anyone who lives in the building can use the outdoor deck anytime."

"I noticed a surveillance camera out there. Anything on it?" she asked as they got into the elevator and O'Brien punched a b.u.t.ton.

"We got the manager pulling the digitals now, but I'm not holding my breath. The building perimeter has monitored security after hours for break-ins, fire and other emergencies, but the surveillance cameras they have only record on motion and are an independent system. No one watches it. According to the manager, it's meant as a deterrent to the criminal element, not to record the comings and goings of their residents. They like their privacy."

O'Brien told them that the only camera with a shot of the rooftop door had been shoved into the wall. The building manager said they had no idea when that even happened. A wind storm could have done it.

"That's the only feed they have for the roof?" Angel asked.