Blood Score Part 8

A solitary red glow cut through the darkness. He knew from prior visits that the red light had been installed to serve as a beacon for those in the know. As he got closer to his destination, he recognized a familiar stone wall that surrounded a private estate, backlit by an impressive array of landscape lighting that also served a purpose for security.

He pulled off the two-way road onto a private drive that led to a guard station at the main gated entrance. An armed man in black paramilitary gear walked up to his vehicle, and Cronan saw others behind the gate. He rolled down his window and gave the man his business card and his purpose for coming.

"Is she expecting you?" the guard asked.

"No, but give her my name. She'll see me."

The guard grimaced when he read Cronan's card and saw he was a cop. After the man gave him a c.o.c.ky smirk, he did as he was asked. Minutes later, he came back to the vehicle with a solemn expression on his face and handed his card back. All business now.

"You're clear. Proceed to the front entrance. Someone will be there to escort you."

As the guard spoke, the ma.s.sive wrought iron gate rumbled open, and the armed men behind the barrier moved aside. Cronan drove onto the grounds and headed for the gothic style mansion at the end of a long driveway. The residence looked more like a French Chateau in limestone with ornate spires and towers, but the occasional gargoyle was added more as a whimsical touch by the woman he'd come to see.

He drove through a beautifully manicured landscape to the expansive portico across from an impressive fountain. After he parked, a uniformed valet came for his keys, but Cronan declined.

"I won't be staying."

"Yes, sir." Judging by the surprised look on the valet's face, the young man hadn't heard that often.

As promised by the guard at the gate, a man dressed in a tuxedo stood at the front entrance to the manor. Cronan would be underdressed in his jeans, black T-shirt, and leather jacket, but he didn't care. He had a job to do. He hadn't come for fun and games.

He waved to the man in the tux and headed inside. Cronan had been working his connections most of the night, showing a photo of Olivia Davenport at other locations on his way here. This was the third place he'd been to, asking if anyone had seen the striking blonde. He'd saved the Moreau estate for his last stop of the night.

Here he had someone who trusted him enough to give him the inside track. If socialite Olivia Davenport was into rough s.e.x, Simone Moreau would know about it.

Chapter 7.

Outside Chicago "She's in the theatre, and she's asked you to join her. This way." The man in the tux nodded and turned his back, expecting Cronan to follow.

Cronan noticed the guy in the penguin suit carried a concealed weapon. Security for the guests had gotten tighter at Chez Moreau. He could understand why, given the reason that had brought him to the mansion in the first place, years ago.

With his footsteps echoing down a tiled corridor, Cronan couldn't help but notice the wood paneled walls adorned with erotic oil paintings-images depicting s.e.xual acts from all over the world. Marble busts of suggestive body parts were mounted on white pedestals. He'd seen the Moreau gallery before, the few times he'd been to the estate.

But what never ceased to amaze him were the uninhibited Moreau guests.

Smaller rooms off the corridor held private parties. Each chamber had a different theme or purpose. Everywhere he looked, he saw men and women dressed in body harnesses and chains, or not dressed at all, being serviced by Moreau staff. Some rooms had contraptions he'd never seen before, geared to mechanically fulfill the darkest fantasy at the flip of a switch and without the frailty of the human body. Anyone could watch. Other suites were more private, but not the gallery.

Scantily clad young men and women served potent drinks and savory hors d'oeuvres on silver trays, ignoring the occasional fondle. The discreet staff catered to every guest's desires and brought a sense of civility to carnal excess. Given the fact he had only seen a fraction of the estate, Cronan had to wonder how many guests were on the premises tonight. Even in a dire economy, Chez Moreau's clientele had grown.

He'd forgotten how shocking it was to visit Simone's. Everything he saw rea.s.sured him that he'd made the right decision about not bringing his partner. Angel would have resented him making the decision for her, but Cronan hadn't brought her for one main reason. And it had little to do with saving his partner from the embarra.s.sment of seeing undulating b.u.t.ts or c.o.c.ks fully rigged from stem to stern. He knew the volatile and exotic Simone Moreau wouldn't speak as freely in the company of a stranger.

Fortunately for him, Cronan was no stranger.

His personal escort brought him to the end of a hall and through a double door. In a dark room, a small theatre colored in black and red velvet held an intimate group of people.

When Cronan walked by an older woman with silver white hair and intense blue eyes, who sat with a very young Hispanic man two rows behind Simone, she gave him a wink and followed him down the aisle with her eyes. The Hispanic kid smiled at him after he noticed the older woman's interest, as if he had extended an invitation to join them.

Making eye contact at Simone's place had risks.

Most of the action took place center stage. There was no music, only the sounds of groans and flesh slapping flesh. Three hulking men were taking liberties with a smaller man, and a young woman near the front of the stage indulged her fantasies with fruit. The whole thing looked like performance art.

The guy in the tux waved him toward a middle row. Simone Moreau sat alone in a row directly in front of the stage, halfway back. Her eyes were glued to the performance until she saw him approach.

"I'll never eat a Kiwi again." He grinned and sat next to her. "h.e.l.lo, Simone. You look beautiful as ever."

The minute he sat, the young French woman touched his cheek with the velvet softness of her fingertips. A stark contrast to her pale skin, Simone's full pouty lips were painted red, and her dark smoky eyes glistened in the dim lighting from the stage. Her long dark hair looked as if she'd just gotten out of bed, a s.e.xy tumble. She wore only a short floral silk robe with her bare feet resting on the seat in front of her.

Cronan suspected she had nothing on underneath the silk.

"Gabriel, darling. You pleasure me with a visit, but what happened to your face?" She smiled. "I must say. Those bruises make you look dangerously s.e.xy. Delicieux."

"Thanks. That's the look I was going for."

He'd almost forgotten that Simone called him Gabriel. She was one of the few people that could get away with it. In fact, the way she said his full name, he'd given serious thought to losing his nickname for good.

"Is this business or pleasure?" She rolled her eyes and patted a hand over her heart. "Please...please tell me this is for pleasure. I would show you to my private quarters and keep you all to myself. That is, unless you'd prefer more than one woman."

"No man in his right mind would consider another woman, not with you around." He grinned. "But no, I'm here on business."

Simone came from old money. Her indulgent French father had built her a lavish estate outside Chicago to carry on her obsessions in private-and on a different continent. Under normal circ.u.mstances, Cronan would never have met Simone Moreau, but an unnatural death was never a normal circ.u.mstance.

Simone's younger sister had been found brutally murdered in a room at the estate, the victim of a murder suicide. A volatile affair with a local boy had turned deadly after the sister refused to see him again. The boy slipped through estate security during the night, before Simone beefed up her defense measures, and made his way to the girl's bedroom. He'd stabbed her in a fit of rage before he slit his wrists and bled out on her bed beside the body.

Gabe conducted the investigation. The sensational crime scene and the s.e.xual nature of Simone's enterprise could have turned into media frenzy. But Cronan made sure none of his investigation got leaked to the press after the ME made his ruling, and Simone had been very grateful. That had been over five years ago, before he got partnered with Angel.

"I came to see if you recognize this person," he said.

She took the photo he offered her and looked at it. Cronan had seen the many emotions of Simone Moreau. From that experience, he knew that she had recognized Olivia Davenport's face. Her expression had changed, very slightly, but enough for him to see it.

"What is this about, Gabriel?" She handed back his photo.

Simone played it cagey. He knew that as proprietor, she would be fiercely loyal to her clientele and wouldn't have revealed anything unless he gave her a compelling reason to do so.

"She was murdered, and I'm investigating her death." He thought about how much to tell her, but decided honesty would go a long way with Simone. "We found BDSM gear at her home. Was she a client of yours?"

It took her a moment to answer.

"I may have seen her here a time or two. But I would not consider her a regular, if any of my clients could be called regular." She smiled. "Guests pay a fee to belong. Once they are here, we do not track them. What they do is private."

"Do you remember if she was with anyone?"

"Not that I recall, but as you have seen, I have many diversions in my home. A person could get lost here." Simone hesitated and narrowed her eyes. "Maybe once I saw her with a young man, but I could not be certain. Many of the guests wear masks or hoods."

"Was the guy blind?"

"That much, I could not tell you, mon amour. I'm sorry, Gabriel."

He grinned. "You can make it up to me by telling me what she was into. Can you tell me that?"

"As I recall, she loved her fantasies. She was no subtle flower, that one. But like I said, she was not a regular." She leaned closer. "But for you, I would ask my people. Perhaps one of them would know more. Would you allow me to have that photo?"

"Sure." He gave her the picture of Olivia. "I'd appreciate it if you'd check with your staff. Thanks."

"Is that all, Gabriel?"

Before he answered, she reached for his inner thigh and ran her fingernails up his leg. Simone knew how to touch a man, and after his body reacted, he stopped her. When he grabbed her hand, she didn't glance at him. Simone stared straight ahead, but he saw she smiled even in the dim glow coming from the stage.

"You are irresistible, mon amour. And I always want what I cannot have." She turned toward him, and her gaze trailed down his body. "But if you ever allow me, I will personally see to your pleasure. I promise you will not forget me. Not every erotic adventure is about pain and humiliation. My hope is that one day...you will allow me to show you, Gabriel."

Cronan still felt Simone's hand on his thigh, even after she'd removed it-a touch that had sent chills over his body. Her low throaty voice nearly gave him a hard on. He couldn't imagine giving complete control to this woman, but if he ever did, he had a feeling Simone would be like popcorn.

One taste wouldn't be enough.

"You make it hard to..." He never finished. Simone leaned closer and touched a finger to his lips.

"Do not finish." She smiled and winked. "You make it hard. That would be a good thing for you to remember. N'est-ce pas?"

"More like impossible to forget." He grabbed her fingers and kissed them. "Thanks, Simone. Call me if you come up with anything new on Olivia Davenport." He handed her a card.

Cronan got up from his seat and was escorted out by the beefy guy in the tux. But before he left the theatre, he looked over his shoulder. Simone Moreau was still watching him with those provocative eyes and her wicked smile.

Cronan wasn't psychic, but he did have a strong feeling that another shower was in his future. A cold one.

Bogart's Wine Bar a Downtown Chicago "Olivia had needs I couldn't-" Ethan lowered his head and stared at the floor. "I suppose I had suspicions, because I knew she wouldn't be satisfied with...just me."

Angel knew it had taken guts for him to admit that.

"But you never suspected anyone in particular?" she asked. "I mean, did you have any idea who she might have been with?"

"No. And more to the point, I didn't want to know." He sighed and lifted his head. "But I wasn't much better. I took what I wanted, too. Maybe Olivia was more honest than I was."

He'd obviously given his relationship with Olivia a lot of thought. Her murder hadn't been the first time he'd questioned his reason for being with her.

"But you'd only been dating six months. I think you have to put things in perspective and stop being so hard on yourself."

He thought about what she'd said and smiled. "Perhaps you're right. Thanks for saying that. I do have a tendency toward being my own whipping boy."

The irony of him referring to a *whipping boy' was not missed on Angel.

"I can't believe she's gone. Before I came over here, I'd fallen asleep. Have you ever awakened with a start, like there was something really important you should've done?" A distant sadness clouded his eyes. "I woke up, and for a split second I believed everything was okay. But then I remembered, and I felt sick, like there was something I could have done differently. That's why I didn't want to stay home tonight...alone. Unlike a sighted person, my eyes can't distract my mind. I can't turn it off except when I sleep...and that's not likely."

Angel knew that feeling. For a very long time after her husband's death, every time she opened her eyes in the morning, she stared into a bedroom that had been hers and Manny's. Memories of their lives together haunted and comforted her in a strange bittersweet torture. Time had dulled the sick regret, but Ethan's words made that sensation fresh in her mind.

"I can understand that." She didn't explain how she knew. "It won't be easy. Every day will have new challenges. There will be times you swear you can't make it another day, but then you do."

He stared in her direction for a long moment without saying anything, as if he could see her.

"I'm sorry."

Those two words took her by surprise.

"Sorry. For what?"

"You lost someone, too." He brushed his hand against hers and left it there, touching her skin. "You don't have to tell me. It's enough to know you understand."

His beautiful eyes watered, and he took a fraying breath. Angel fought the urge to reach for his hand.

"Looks like our food's coming," she said, thankful for the distraction. "It smells great in here. I'm starved."

"Yes. I am, too." He smiled, and the quiet commiseration between them vanished.

After the waitress had served the appetizers and left them alone, Ethan asked Angel to describe the arrangement on the plate. Since she was unfamiliar with the menu, she took great pains to identify each item and sounded like someone off Food TV. Ethan looked amused.

"Actually I've eaten here before, but if you could tell me where each appetizer is in relation to the hands of a clock, that would be helpful. I wouldn't want to OD on wasabi or bite into a pepper thinking it's a pickle."

"Yeah, good point."

After she described the food arranged on the platter, Ethan shared more about his relationship with Olivia. He told her about what he knew of her friends. With his blindness, he would have been forced to rely on Olivia's sight and her willingness to share what she saw. Sad to say, given Olivia's apparent cruel streak, Angel wasn't sure she could trust Ethan's limited version of what had happened between them. Any woman who would openly flirt in front of her blind lover was someone hard to respect. The more he shared, the more Angel found it hard to stay objective when it came to Olivia's sense of right and wrong.

"Truth is, I've never had a lot of luck with women. Not really." He shrugged. "I spent years dealing with my blindness and the rest of the time, I rehea.r.s.ed for performances or spent hours with a private tutor. There wasn't much time for dating."

He reached for another pancetta wrapped shrimp, took a bite, and wiped his hands and mouth with his napkin. Angel thought about taking the last one, but she left it for him.

"I don't know. You look like the kind of guy women would flock to." She grinned. "I bet you had to beat them off with a stick."

"Well, perhaps not a stick. More of a cane, actually."

When he patted his folded cane with his hand, her cheeks turned hot.

"Oh...I didn't mean it like that."

He laughed.

"I know you didn't. Sorry, I couldn't resist, but being blind does have its disadvantages." He took a sip of his wine. "I've never told anyone this story, but I hit on a woman once at a shopping mall when I was a teenager. I wanted to try my best pick-up lines on an older, more experienced woman. Mind you, I can blame my brazen behavior on being young and completely moronic when it came to the opposite s.e.x."

The alcohol had loosened both their inhibitions. Angel had almost forgotten that Ethan was still a suspect. Almost.

"Can't we all." She raised an eyebrow. "So what did you say?"