Blood Score Part 18

From his recent visit with Simone he'd learned that Ethan had been the paying member at Chez Moreau, not Olivia. Yet the musician had misdirected his partner by implying the rough s.e.x play and games had come from Olivia, as if he were an innocent bystander who had no connection to *the life' except through her. Something wasn't right. Had the prominent violinist merely avoided the truth to keep his reputation intact, or had he lied to cover his a.s.s in the death of his girlfriend?

In that moment, sitting across from Angel at Slim's, he made up his mind to search McFarland's place again, without her. Maybe neither of them could be objective, one way or the other, when it came to the guilt or innocence of the violinist. But Cronan thought it would be better to error on the side of letting the evidence support or deny the truth, rather than turning a blind eye, so to speak.

"Do you think he's telling you the truth?" Cronan shoved his half-eaten basket of dogs to the side. He'd lost his appet.i.te.

She thought about it and said, "Yeah, I do. Gut instinct, but I got nothing else to back up that feeling."

Cronan only nodded. He had nothing else to support his version of the truth either. Until he did, he wouldn't risk bursting the bubble of his partner's high opinion of Ethan Chandler. Holding back on his doubts wasn't about the case anymore. Angel had the right to be happy, even if that meant he had to finally let go.

Evening If Cronan wasn't working such a high-profile case that included face time with the chief, he would've been looking for a fight. The underground fight club would've pounded him into the oblivion of a dreamless sleep. Without the punishment of a good fight, he had to find release another way.

After he got home and fed One-eyed Jack, he hit his makeshift gym located beneath the metal rafters of his lofted bed. He had free weights, an exercise mat, and other contraptions to work on his abs, but hanging from metal girders, he had a seventy-pound punching bag, his chosen method of abuse now.

Wearing only gym shorts, he bound his hands in elastic wrap, donned boxing gloves, and got to work. In no time he shifted into high gear and battered the bag in blinding succession, side-stepping and circling it with each driving blow. The muscles in his legs burned, and his fists ached with every jab, but nothing would free his mind of Angel's dark soulful eyes.

Stay focused and keep moving. Use the pain.

He grunted with each hard blow. His gloved punches had a rhythm that intensified. When he picked up his pace, he circled the bag and focused his whole body on every blow. His lungs were heaving and sweat trailed off his arms and back. He switched up the speed and varied his combination punches-left jab, straight right, left hook. Cronan had hit the zone physically, but he was still haunted by his partner, Angel. The subtle perfume she wore, the gentle curve of her back, the lips he always wanted to taste. These were the things he couldn't block no matter how hard he worked out.

He finally stopped when he couldn't hold his arms up anymore. Exhausted, he stripped off his gloves and unwound the elastic wrap from his hands. Before he cleaned up, he caught a glimpse of Jack. The yellow tabby sprawled on his floor belly up, staring at him in a squint and purring like a jet engine. Cronan shook his head and grinned.

"Not all of us have...luck with the l-ladies, like you do, Jack," he panted. "Some of us...have to work hard...to look half as good as you."

When Jack chose that moment to lick his junk, Cronan rolled his eyes and left him to it. He turned on his shower and let the water get hot. Billows of steam filled the small s.p.a.ce as he cut through the humidity and stepped naked into the stall. With a gasp, he let the hot stream trail down his neck and shoulders. He hoped the pain of an exhausting workout and the torture of hot water would be enough of a distraction, but it wasn't.

Nothing would free his mind. Even with his eyes closed, all he saw was Angel. She was all he wanted to see.

Simone Moreau had tempted him in the past, before he knew Angel, but something about the French woman had kept him from her bed, even after the case with her sister had been closed. After seeing Simone recently, there were nights he'd dreamed of her in strange suggestive ways. His fantasies might start with Simone-a woman who wouldn't expect anything from him except his body-but his erotic imaginings would always end with Angel in his arms.

When he reached for the gel wash, he slathered it onto his skin as he pictured Angel. In a familiar fantasy, he closed his eyes and imagined her stepping into the shower with him. They wouldn't talk. She would look at him with those eyes, hungry for the same thing he wanted.

In his fantasy, Cronan pulled Angel's warm naked body into his and caressed her under the steamy, wet heat. His hands b.u.t.tered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with citrus scented soap as he kissed her neck from behind her. When Angel leaned into him, he felt his p.e.n.i.s stiffen. He slipped his soapy fingers between her legs and pressed her perfect soft curves against him.

"I want you inside me."

Her throaty whisper echoed in his shower stall and would haunt his mind afterward. When she turned toward him, the feeling of her hard nipples pressed against his body sent a rush through him. As her hand slid over his engorged c.o.c.k, her fingers grasped him and ran the length of his flesh, working him into a fevered pitch.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Angel." He loved saying her name in a whisper meant for only her.

With his fingers covered in lather, Cronan mimicked the velvet touch of her hand on his p.e.n.i.s, but even in his fantasies, he refused to finish until he pictured her in the throes of o.r.g.a.s.m. He slid his hand between her legs and brought her pleasure until her body shuddered, wave after wave. The sounds of her growing need came in urgent panting that grew louder than the pounding water.

When he plunged his tongue into her mouth, Angel writhed against him until he reached down and hoisted her up with both hands. She wrapped her legs around his hips, still kissing him as he pressed her back into the tiles to hold her. He pushed his rigid c.o.c.k into her and mounted her with a thrust that filled her.

"Yes, yes," she cried as he shoved into her.

Cronan felt every driving inch as he pumped harder and faster until hot s.e.m.e.n shot from his body and spewed over his fingers in waves. He cried out, and his whole body convulsed in spurts. With the heat of the water, he saw stars as every muscle let go.

The release sobered him up. When he opened his eyes, Cronan looked down and took in what he'd done as Angel's sweet face vanished in the steam.

He had it bad for his partner. Real bad.

Downtown Chicago 11:20 PM.

Cronan knew sleep would be impossible. Between his thing for Angel and his restless mind, he chased theories for the real reason behind McFarland becoming a player in the Davenport case. After his shower, he got dressed in jeans, boots, and a blue chambray shirt that he left tail-out so he could hide his Glock 21 at the small of his back in a leather belt holster. When he hit his kitchen, he fixed a quick pasta stir fry and cooled a few pieces for Jack to eat as a peace offering.

His furry roommate would not take his leaving well.

Jack liked to sleep at the foot of his bed, curled into a ball of yellow fur. The stray had his rituals and hated when Cronan didn't abide by the rules of a proper bedtime. The cat stared down at him from the elevated loft of his bedroom as he grabbed his keys. Jack mewled in a long raspy whine.

"We're not married, Jack. Get over it," he said. But before he headed out the door, he added, "I'll make it up to you. Promise."

That satisfied Jack. He turned, flipped his tail up, and flashed his b.u.t.t. Cronan wished all his relationships would be that clear cut.

During his drive downtown to revisit the crime scene, he visualized what he remembered about McFarland's place to get his head in the game. Earlier, he'd called ahead to let building management know to expect him. He flashed his badge at the door when the manager let him in.

"Please let me know when you leave. I'll have to let you out and secure the door again," the man said as he handed him a card with his direct number on it. "Call this number. I'll stay for as long as you need me."

"Sure thing." Cronan said. "By the way, can residents come and go after hours? Or do they need someone to let them in after the doors are locked for the night?"

"They come and go as they please." The guy explained how residents used their keys to access doors in and out of the building. "We don't have a curfew like some frat house. Privacy is important here. I'm sure you understand."

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

Yeah, Cronan did understand. The manager's answer meant that if McFarland was murdered, and the killer staged the scene to look like a suicide, whoever did it had to be either a resident or know the ins and outs of the building as if they lived here. Cronan chewed on that as he hit the elevators and punched the floor number.

When he got to McFarland's suite, he saw that yellow and black crime scene tape sealed the front door as a warning, so no one unauthorized would enter. It was still an active crime scene until investigators were done. Cronan had to cut the tape to enter, using a folded knife he'd brought with him, stuffed into the pocket of his jeans. When he got inside, he flipped on the light switch to the living room and looked over the mess that the crime scene techs had left in their wake. Anything of significance would've been taken with them as evidence, but he'd come to see if they'd missed something.

After he took a quick look around, he found a desk that McFarland might've used to pay bills and rummaged through it. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he would know it when he saw it. The man's credit card statements didn't show any obvious signs that McFarland had paid for a membership to Simone's private club or even ate meals or paid for gas near the place. To keep memberships and patronage confidential, he knew Simone used the corporate billing name of *The Uncommon Jungle' to ID her unique "services" without giving away the true nature of her business. Cronan knew what to look for, but nothing in McFarland's bills sent up an alarm flare until he found a property tax statement.

From correspondence with a legal firm, it seemed that Tim McFarland had inherited lakefront property on Lake Zurich from a deceased grandmother. A background check might have missed the property ownership since it took time for a change in t.i.tle to show. He made a note of the address.

After he did a thorough search of the rest of the premises, Cronan found nothing else to flag as important. That left McFarland's private room to go over again. It made sense that if he had secrets, they would be locked away in a s.p.a.ce he'd designed for such a thing, so the rest of his life could look squeaky clean.

Schumacher and O'Brien had been thorough. He knew digital photos had been taken of the room layout. They'd dusted for fingerprints, and bagged the broken liquor bottle and the gift box as evidence, among other things, but Cronan had come for another reason. He came looking for something his team might've missed. He moved around the room and looked at it from odd angles, imagining what McFarland did in the room.

That's when he noticed the marks.

The carpet showed well-worn indentations that seemed odd. The marks on the floor were too close to the TV screen for movie watching. McFarland had a sofa in the room that would've made a better spot for viewing. The indentations in the rug made Cronan curious. The man had a better TV in his main living room. Why spend so much time in this small cramped s.p.a.ce that he had to leave carpet impressions this close to the screen?

When Cronan found a chair that matched the indentations, he placed the seat where McFarland had it and sat. That put him squarely in front of the TV screen that must've hit the man at eye level.

"Weird, dude," he muttered. "For guys, TVs are like d.i.c.ks. There's no such thing as too big. Why go with this cheap a.s.s television?"

Seated where McFarland had been gave Cronan a new perspective. He shifted his eyes around the room and focused on areas within arm's reach. He knocked on the walls and shelves behind the TV and heard nothing but a solid thud until one spot sounded hollow. Cronan stood and looked closer. When he leaned and put an ear to the wall, he heard a very faint hum. That could've been utilities, but Cronan pushed and prodded the spot until it opened.

Inside, the hum got louder, and he saw a steady red light and electrical wires that led to something he recognized-surveillance gear.

"d.a.m.n."

Cronan checked out the equipment and connected it to McFarland's TV, to see how the set up worked. Several smaller screens, with channel numbers to identify the feeds, split and filled the TV. With a mouse stashed inside the wall compartment, any of the channels could be enlarged to fill the screen. Cronan looked for clues in the background to indicate who and what McFarland had targeted. Most of the feeds were dedicated to Chandler's private home. He recognized the musician's sound proof recording studio with its distinctive blood red designer sofa and the decor, but when he noticed a camera in the shower and bedroom, Cronan didn't have to guess whose privacy McFarland had invaded.

One video recording had been saved of Ethan showering. The date stamp had been the night Olivia Davenport had been murdered.

"You sorry son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Not all surveillance had been of Ethan Chandler. Two channels were of other young men that Cronan saw moving in their homes. The interiors in the background looked to be from this building. He recognized the window views in one and decorator finishes in the other, although he couldn't be sure what floor these men lived on. Apparently McFarland had stalked other young guys, but Ethan had been his obsession, given the number of camera channels dedicated to the musician.

Even in his most secret s.p.a.ce, McFarland had concealed his illegal activities enough that the evidence techs had missed it.

"Did you take video souvenirs?"

If McFarland had one recording, Cronan knew there would be more, but where were they? A stalker like McFarland, who collected memorabilia on his victim, wouldn't settle for the instantaneous gratification of a live feed or only one recording when he could record and savor his intrusion over and over. He pictured McFarland having a front row seat for his five-on-one spankfest. When Cronan realized the purpose of the seat too close to the TV, he winced and stood as if he'd been shot from a cannon. All he wanted to do was shower again...and Angel would have nothing to do with his *need for clean' this time.

"Sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

If McFarland had gone to the trouble of hiding his illegal surveillance system, Cronan had no doubt that any recordings would have been hidden with the same care. A search of McFarland's lake house shot to the top of his priority list. What had the guy recorded...and would any of it shed light on who killed Olivia? Had McFarland tried to blackmail Chandler? Is that what put him on the killer's radar? Unless he found the digitals to back up his theory, he had nothing more than conjecture.

"Did you off yourself? Or did someone think the world would be a better place without you?"

Cronan wondered if Ethan knew about his neighbor's obsessive interest in him. Had he any notion of how far his stalker had gone to become a part of the intimacy of his life? That backstage argument had to come from a history between Chandler and McFarland that now stretched to Rachel and Bryce and beyond.

As he paced the floor staring at McFarland's secret compartment, an idea took shape in Cronan's mind.

If McFarland's death had been staged to look like a suicide-so Olivia's real killer could point the finger at a dead man-how much did the murderer know about the man's illegal surveillance of Chandler? McFarland's room and his obsessive behavior felt secret. He couldn't picture the guy sharing that with anyone, but if someone had a key to his residence and got a glimpse of his shrine to Chandler before a CPD investigative team had access to it, what could've been in plain sight and grabbed before Schumacher and company got there? Someone would've had time alone in McFarland's place to plant the burner and check things out.

That missing key had more implications and had turned into a greater mystery, but Cronan's gut told him that McFarland kept his video collection somewhere special-the lake house.

If evidence had been removed from McFarland's residence, they may never know what had been worth killing over...or if the recordings had anything to do with Olivia's death. But that also meant he and Angel would have an ace in the hole to draw out the real killer, if they played their cards right. With the possibility that more recordings were kept by McFarland at a recently inherited lake property, even a savvy killer might be curious enough to come out of hiding to find out.

Cronan unhooked the TV and closed up the slot that housed the surveillance gear, careful to leave it as he'd found it. Discovering the equipment felt like a breakthrough that could be parlayed into more.

If someone had killed McFarland and staged his death to look like a suicide, it had been a clever move to plant the burner phone to point the finger at McFarland for Olivia's murder. But once the killer had his hands on McFarland's key, he might've been surprised at what he found in his home. Whoever did that would have to leave the secret room in place to show McFarland as the stalker he was, to give the man a deeper motive. But if there were digital recordings of something embarra.s.sing, or anything that led to another motive to kill Olivia, those recordings would be irresistible to the real killer, if Cronan's theory held up.

"Yeah, McFarland had a secret stash somewhere else. It could happen." Cronan left the crime scene and locked it up.

As he headed to the lobby, he thought about his next move. He liked the idea of drawing out a ruthless killer, but he had mixed feelings about the videos. He should've been happier, but he didn't know how Angel would take the news that Ethan's privacy had been invaded and there could be recordings of G.o.d knew what.

For Angel's sake, Cronan wanted to give the musician the benefit of the doubt that he'd been telling his partner the truth about Olivia being the one into the rough stuff, but what if he'd lied about that and there was undisputed proof? Lying about his s.e.x life didn't make Chandler a killer. He could only be protecting his reputation, but Cronan had learned from many other cases that liars had more to hide.

Either way, he knew Angel wouldn't like questioning everything she'd come to believe about Ethan Chandler.

After midnight Angel lay in her bed in the dark, staring at the shadows of her ceiling. On her nightstand she had an iPod playing, and she listened to the faint strains of Ethan's violin. She had the volume turned down so the seductive melody could be white noise to lure her to sleep, but whenever she closed her eyes she pictured Ethan's powerful performance on stage. The pa.s.sion on his handsome face as he played and the fluid grace of his strong fingers were impossible to forget.

With eyes shut, she thought of Ethan, but with her eyes wide open, another man kept her awake-Gabe Cronan. Two very different men.

Ethan wasn't like anyone she'd ever met. He was twenty-five, a few years younger than she was and he was physically beautiful, but she felt that the challenges he'd face in his young life had blessed him with an ancient and worldly soul. He had a shy vulnerability that made her want to protect him, and when she imagined being with him in bed, she pictured him as a generous and giving lover.

It hadn't been a stretch to hear Olivia had exploited his innocence by s.e.xually experimenting with him. Angel had never been one for playing games. She didn't have to with Manny. He satisfied her body, her mind, and her heart, but with Ethan she had to admit the thought of making him a fantasy lover had lingered. Angel knew it would be exploitive and would objectify him. She'd never go through with her dark desires, because they were nothing more than fantasies, but she could see how Olivia might've given in to her needs with Ethan. His boyish and idyllic beauty, his age, and even his blindness made him vulnerable to women who liked to take charge or had a secret desire to school a young lover.

Her partner was the complete opposite of someone like Ethan Chandler.

There was a potency and strength in Gabe, with an underlying element of danger that gave him edge. He was dark and brooding and closed off when he needed s.p.a.ce. He had a wicked and devilish glint to his amazing blue eyes. She'd seen his eyes become intimidating weapons on the job, but she could easily imagine those eyes turning into irresistible lures to attract the right woman to his bed after dark.

He was a guy's guy and a loner, but if he ever let a woman into his life, Angel knew he'd fall hard and completely like a wolf alpha male that mated for life. With Gabe, there was no middle ground. A woman would have to take the whole package-even his dark side-in order to love him body and soul, because that's the way he would love her.

In bed there would be no coy games. Gabe would be the kind of lover who would satisfy a woman to her very toes. Why would any woman in her right mind want him to play another role? She smiled when she thought about tying him down so she could take her time with his body, but with Gabe, she would want him unleashed and free. That made her smile again, but her amus.e.m.e.nt came and went.

You're being stupid, Angel, she chastised. It's not like you get to order off a Chinese food menu, pick one from column A or B and you get fried rice and an eggroll.

If she did get to pick between Ethan and Gabe, her partner was the greater risk for her heart. He wasn't a fling or a fantasy to try and leave behind. Although she had her job to think about if she ever crossed the line with her partner, loving Gabe would be a one-way trip. No retreat, only surrender. She wasn't sure if she was ready for surrender.

When her iPod changed tracks and another song started, her cell phone rang and made her heart jump. A call this time of night for a homicide cop was never a good thing, but when she looked at the display screen, she recognized the phone number.

She answered the call as her face flushed with heat.

"h.e.l.lo?"

Her voice cracked.

"Angel?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Caller ID told her who was on the other end of the line, but she wanted to hear him say his name.

"This is Ethan." His voice was soft and low. When he breathed into the phone, she heard the rustle of his bed sheets. "I couldn't sleep...and I didn't know who else to call. I hope I didn't wake you."

Angel shut her eyes and swallowed, hard. Ethan Chandler was a famous world-renowned violinist. With all the people in his life, she found it sad that he had to reach out to a virtual stranger when he needed to talk.

Had his dead girlfriend been that person for him? She didn't feel like questioning Ethan's motives for calling her at this hour, because she'd spent far too much time gazing into death's never ending black mirror. She understood what it felt like to be lost and floundering in grief.

She remembered the suffocating paralysis of grief where days ran into nights in a mindless blur. When she was ready to come up for air, she often talked to anyone who would listen, because she needed to reach out and strangers didn't judge her inability to move on.

"No, you didn't wake me. I couldn't sleep either." She pulled her blanket over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and nestled into her pillows.

"Is that my music?" he asked.

He had a smile in his voice and the intimacy of that made it feel as if he were lying next to her. She'd left her iPod playing. He must've heard it.