Embrace the Darkness (Darkness Series) (2 page)

After five months and no additional leads, Captain Stratford had asked Reid and Amber to look at the evidence and conduct follow up interviews before he called in the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation. Daniels and Tanner didn’t like sharing their case, but nobody wanted the captain bringing in the SBI.

Inside Lifeblood of America’s lobby, black and white Terrazzo floors gleamed like polished glass. Back in March, those same floors had been spattered with blood.

The thought sent Amber’s pulse skyrocketing. Mental images of crime scene photos overlapped her vision like a holographic Polaroid. She could almost see research assistant Tina Gallagher slumped next to the door in a pool of blood, her mouth opened in a silent scream.

Had Miss Gallagher known she was going to die? Had she felt the paralyzing grip of fear before her throat had been cut?

Amber understood terror—the inability to move, rendering a person incapable of action or speech—of rational thought. Memories tapped at her brain—painful, bloody memories.

Don’t go there!

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she visualized the ocean again as she followed her colleague to a mahogany reception desk in front of a peaceful mountain mural. The Blue Ridge in spring. Waterfall and mountain laurel—calming, peaceful—the antithesis of what had occurred in the lobby last March.

“May I help you?” a petite brunette asked in a somber voice.

Both Amber and Reid flipped open their badges. Reid spoke in a deep authoritative voice. “I’m Detective Reid Sheridan. This is my partner, Amber Buckley.”

Amber tensed. Once again, he’d failed to identify her as a detective. But she let it slide. No sense calling public attention to his lack of respect.

She smiled and put away her badge. The receptionist’s gaze slid across the lobby to where Tina Gallagher’s body had been found. Her cheeks paled.

“What can I do for you?” she stammered.

“Delaroche’s office. Where is it?” Reid said, clearly enjoying the receptionist’s anxiety. Amber wanted to whack him on the back of the head.

The name Julia Jackson was stenciled on a brass nameplate on the desk but Reid ignored it. Amber pasted a smile on her face and softened her voice. “Ms. Jackson?”

The young woman nodded. Amber held her gaze, trying to put her at ease. “We’re here to conduct a follow up interview with Mr. Delaroche and Mr. Maxwell. We were asked to meet them in the second floor conference room at four. Could you have someone show us up please?”

“Of course.” Ms. Jackson pressed the side of her earpiece and turned her head, speaking in hushed tones for privacy. Then she looked up and offered a wobbly smile.

“Jimmy’s in the security office,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper as she tilted her head toward the door behind her desk. “Since the murders, he’s not allowed to step away from the monitors. But Grant should be here momentarily to show you up.”

“We don’t have all day.” Reid opened his suit jacket wide enough to show his shoulder harness. Amber suppressed a groan. He’d obviously watched one too many Bruce Willis movies.

“Thank you,” she said to Ms. Jackson before turning to glare at her partner.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. We’ll wait.”

Patience was
not
his middle name.

While Reid paced, Amber turned her attention to Ms. Jackson. “How well did you know Miss Gallagher?”

Blank stare. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t know her at all? Or you didn’t know her well?”

“We never met.”

Amber tried not to scowl, but she’d yet to master a poker face. And her appearance would never inspire female solidarity. She kept her dark hair pulled back in a tight French braid with the end clipped underneath so a perp couldn’t grab it in a scuffle. And she dressed in bland business attire in an attempt to blend-in in a male dominated career.

Lip gloss, a light coating of mascara, a tiny sterling silver cross necklace, and dainty hoop earrings, were the only
visible
feminine touches she allowed herself on the job. But underneath her clothes, she wore sexy lingerie—a personal reminder that she was still a desirable woman, despite her lack of any recognizable form of a love life for the past two years.

She smoothed out the frown lines and tried holding a smile. “Miss Gallagher was Dr. Harper’s research assistant. How could you
not
have met her?”

Ms. Jackson nervously twisted her fingers together. “They worked nights. I work days.”

During the initial interviews, Dr. Harper, Vincent Maxwell—Dr. Harper’s husband—and Gerard Delaroche claimed Miss Gallagher was working the night she was killed. No one mentioned it was her usual shift. And they didn’t explain why Dr. Harper skipped work that night to visit a friend of her husband’s in the middle of the night—a friend named Sonia with no known last name, no phone number, and no address.

So, how the hell did Dr. Harper visit Sonia if she didn’t know her last name or where she lived? Did Sonia know something Maxwell and Harper didn’t want divulged? Was she an employee?

“Do you know a woman named Sonia?” Amber asked Ms. Jackson.

Another blank stare. “No.”

Aside from serial killers and the infrequent, random act of violence, most murder victims were killed for money, vengeance, or sex. And the killer wasn’t normally a stranger. So, who had a motive to kill Tina Gallagher?

The initial investigators believed Delaroche and Harper were having an affair and that Miss Gallagher found out and threatened to tell Dr. Harper’s husband, Vincent Maxwell. Delaroche didn’t want to lose his business partner
or
his lover so he killed the research assistant to shut her up.

It was a reasonable hypothesis. Richard Baxter—the young security guard also killed that night—could have seen Delaroche lurking outside the lab. That would explain why his body was found stuffed in a janitor’s closet two doors down. It didn’t explain why his throat had been cut—
after
his body was drained of blood.

According to the autopsy report, there wasn’t enough blood left in his tissues to cause liver mortis. And Axle Travers, the other security guard who’d been working that night, was still missing.

Was Travers involved in the murders? Or had he seen something so terrifying he’d gone into hiding?

Fighting her own lingering fears, Amber held Ms. Jackson’s gaze. “What about Axle Travers? How well did you know
him
?”

A muscle jumped in Ms. Jackson’s jaw. “I don’t work nights. Ever. I met Axle once. When he came in to fill out a hiring package.”

Maybe Reid was on to something with the tough cop routine.

Amber leaned over the counter and glared. “You do know your bosses. Don’t you?”

Ms. Jackson twisted her fingers together on top of her desk. A flush stained her cheeks, but she showed no overt signs of deceit when she said, “Of course, I’ve met them. They hired me. And they sometimes come in before I get off at five. But I don’t really see much of them either.”

Lifeblood of America was a multi-million dollar business. So, why wasn’t it run like one? Why did the owners and two highly-paid researchers work nights when most everyone else was home sleeping?

Amber pulled a thick pad from her purse and flipped through her notes. Delaroche was the after-hours procurement agent, but Maxwell was CEO. He had no reason to work nights.

The research division of the company was a nine to five operation—nine in the morning to five in the evening. Yet Dr. Harper and Ms. Gallagher worked from nine at night to five in the morning. Why the odd hours? What were they researching?

Did it have something to do with Ms. Gallagher’s death?

“Was Ms. Gallagher working on a special project?” Amber asked.

Ms. Jackson tapped a red-lacquered nail on the counter. “I wouldn’t know.”

No. Probably not. Ms. Jackson was a receptionist, not an executive assistant. “Did Ms. Gallagher
always
work so late? Or had her hours recently changed?”

Ms. Jackson raised her brows. “Miss Gallagher
is—
was—Dr. Harper’s lab assistant. And Dr. Harper
is
married to Mr. Maxwell.”

“And what does that have to do with either of their work schedules?”

Ms. Jackson’s jaw dropped; her brows rose. “You’re kidding. Right? That’s like common knowledge around here. Everyone gossips about it, and you guys haven’t figured it out yet?”

Unease skittered down Amber’s spine. She had a bad feeling. Someone on her team had missed something. But she wasn’t about to admit ignorance or criticize a fellow officer in front of a civilian.

Holding Ms. Jackson’s gaze, she said, “We have boxes of evidence and interview notes. Which piece of information do your co-workers gossip about that you feel is pertinent to Miss Gallagher’s schedule?”

Ms. Jackson rolled her eyes. “Dr. Harper and Miss Gallagher work nights so Dr. Harper can spend time with her husband. Both Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Delaroche have XP.”

“XP?”Amber flipped through her notes again, trying to find the initials, knowing it had nothing to do with computers.

“Xeroderma Pigmentosum,” Ms. Jackson said, as if the answer were obvious. “It’s one of the medical conditions we research here at Lifeblood of America. It’s a rare genetic light sensitivity disorder. People with the condition have to avoid sunlight or risk disfiguring sunburns and fatal skin cancers. You should have known that already.”

That explained Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Delaroche’s insistence that all interviews be conducted before 0800 hours or after 1600 hours—that much, at least, was in the initial interview notes. But there was no mention of XP—or anything else that might explain Ms. Gallagher’s odd hours.

Screw Reid’s bad cop tactics. When Amber tried it, she came across as a bitch.

Forcing a smile, she opted for a conciliatory tone, hoping to regain some of the ground she’d lost. “Like I said, we have a lot of information. But I appreciate you bringing me up to speed.”

She’d rather take the blame for not preparing for the interview than hint at departmental incompetence.

Ms. Jackson pursed her lips in an expression of disapproval. “Well, you should have gone over your notes before coming here.”

The secretary’s attitude tried Amber’s patience. Her smile faltered. “I have a lot of catching up to do. But again, thank you for your assistance.”

“Sure.” Ms. Jackson shrugged. Then she leaned forward on her elbows and lowered her voice to a “between girlfriends” kind of whisper. “You know, I hear a lot of rumors down here. So, if you ever want to know something on an unofficial basis, just ask. I don’t want to get involved or anything like that, but I do hear stuff.”

Amber propped one elbow on the counter and cupped her chin in her hand. She leaned in close, her voice dropping to match Ms. Jackson’s. “Really? What kind of
stuff
?”

“You know.” Ms. Jackson shrugged again, her eyes darting nervously about the lobby as if she feared someone would overhear. Then her voice dropped even lower. “Stuff like knowing Miss Gallagher and Mr. Delaroche were involved. You knew that. Right?”

No. She didn’t. Everyone on the force assumed Delaroche was involved with Dr. Harper.

“It’s certainly the kind of information that can help with the investigation,” she said as the elevator doors slid open and a tall, middle-aged man stepped out into the lobby. She handed Ms. Jackson her card. “If you hear anything else, please call me.”

Then she turned to meet Reid as he strode forward and introduced himself to the security guard. “Detective Sheridan. And this is my partner, Amber Buckley.”

Amber smiled, trying not to bristle at her partner’s continued lack of respect for her rank.

The security guard took Reid’s hand and nodded. “I’m Grant Simmons, Chief of Security.” He extended his hand to Amber. “Detective?”

“Yes.”

A ghost of a smile flashed across his broad face before he turned toward a security panel next to the elevator door. He swiped his badge. A red LED light blinked yellow. Then he punched in a numeric code and placed his palm over a sensor. The light flashed green and the elevator doors slid open.

“You need a badge and code to go up, but not to come back down.” He stepped inside the elevator and held open the door for Amber and Reid.

“So, we need a babysitter while we’re up there?” Reid asked when the doors slid closed.

“I think I can trust you not to go snooping around unescorted,” Simmons replied. “You couldn’t get into the labs anyway. You don’t have a badge or a code, and your palm hasn’t been scanned into the system.”

“So, you saying these murders were an inside job?” Reid’s tone implied he hadn’t already considered the possibility. Amber knew better. From the beginning, they’d both thought it likely.

Simmons paled. “I’m not accusing anybody. And Axle had nothing to do with the murders.”

“Who said anything about Axle Travers?”

Turning a sick shade of green and looking as if he’d just ratted out a friend, Simmons stared at the elevator control panel and said nothing more.

Reid’s attitude was brusque and his people skills could use a spit-shine, but he was right. Whoever killed Tina Gallagher and Richard Baxter had security clearance at Lifeblood of America.

When the elevator opened on the second floor, Simmons stepped out but kept his hand on the hold button, preventing the doors from sliding shut. Staring straight ahead, he said, “Conference room is the third door on your right. It’s unlocked. You won’t need a code to get in.”

Amber and Reid stepped out. Simmons nodded and pressed a button. The silver doors slid shut, leaving her and Reid alone in the quiet, sterile corridor.

Metal doors with electronic locks and palm pads lined the hall. The stark white corridor smelled faintly of ammonia, formaldehyde, and autoclaves.