The Promised One (The Turning Stone Chronicles) (5 page)

Chapter 5

Shaw wandered up and down the streets a block from the Dew Drop Inn clicking the key fob he’d stolen from his latest victim. A beep and flash of light caught his attention. Walking closer to the black 2009 Camaro he clicked the fob again. This was it.

Rummaging in the glove box, he found the car registration.

“Baron Jordan. So that was her—or rather his—name.” Shaw searched under the dash for a magnetic key box. Nothing.

He fumbled in his pocket for a pencil. If there was no house key, he could at least get the home address from the registration. There’d be a funeral for this Jordan fellow, and a funeral meant an empty house. He just had to watch the obits.

A rap on the passenger window startled Shaw. He sat up and came face-to-face with a uniform.

“Shit!” The word exploded from him before he could stop it. Shaw threw open the car door and sprinted down the street, dodging cars. The cop shouted at him to halt. Shaw jumped over the intersection curb and knocked over a woman rounding the corner. He grabbed the edge of a brick building to keep himself upright, scraping his fingers on the rough masonry. Glancing behind him, Shaw saw the cop in full pursuit, mouthing something into his shoulder mike. Shaw careened around the corner and increased his speed, his lungs burning with the effort.

This SOB had been nothing but trouble. There had been nothing in the mugging, nothing in the car, and now he had the cops on his tail. The memory of him lying on the ground—his trim beard, chiseled face, and hairy, muscled body—flooded into Shaw’s mind. He shook his head trying to clear the image, but it wouldn’t go away.

A spasm shot through his chest and he stumbled.
Gotta hide. Get out of here.
He swung into an alley. The pain ripped his chest in half. Unable to move, he collapsed against a building.
I’m done for now
.

Drawing his knees to his chest, he hid his face against them. Maybe the cop wouldn’t come down this alley. He held his breath, cursing the day he’d killed Baron Jordan. As he stilled, the hand wearing the ring he’d stolen tingled. The tingling spread through his whole body.

Am I having another heart attack? Probably just as well. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail.

Something jabbed him in the shoulder.

“Hey, you. Look at me.”

The crackle of the police radio told him a cop stood in front of him. Shaw raised his head, his heart racing frantically.

The cop eyed him then scanned the alley. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else. Anybody come into this alley?”

Blood roared in Shaw’s ears. Had he heard right?

The cop raised his voice a notch and repeated the question.

The stupid pig didn’t recognize him. He shook his head.

The cop peered closer. “Are you okay? You’re a little pale.”

He nodded, wiped his hand over his mouth, and then over his chin. Dumbfounded, he repeated the motion.

He had a beard!
Where had that come from?
“I’m fine, officer.”
Like hell I am.
“No need to worry about me.”
The words came out just short of a squeak and not very convincing.
Anxious to rid himself of the cop, Shaw continued his assurances. “I just sat down to rest.”

The cop’s gaze roamed around the alley again. “How long have you been sitting here?”

Shaw shoved his hoodie sleeve up his arm, the material stretched tight against his skin. It hadn’t been that tight when he put it on this morning
.
He checked his wristwatch. Damn! There was hair on his forearm! What was going on? He drew in a shaky breath.
Stay calm. Act like nothing is happening.
He peered at his watch. “About fifteen minutes, Officer, and no one has come into this alley.”

After another lengthy assessment of him, the officer said, “Okay. Sorry I bothered you.” Then he left the alley.

As soon as the cop was out of sight, Shaw jumped up and checked his body. Arm and chest muscles strained his knit jersey hoodie to its limits. Leg muscles bulged under his pants. He rolled the sweatpants’ legs to his knees.
Shit.
He had hair all over him. He rotated the hand he had grazed on the bricks. Red lines covered the length of the fingers, a hint of blood dotting the scrapes.

Shaw crossed the alley to a window, wiped the dirty glass with his sleeve, and stared. Another man’s face peered back at him. The man he had killed in the alley last night.

Stunned, he stumbled backward. How the hell had that happened? And how was he going to get his own face back?

Chapter 6

“We found something, Jordan.”

Alexi’s hand shook as she held the receiver.
Please let it be the ring.
She took a breath to steady her nerves.

“A cop, walking his beat near the alley where your uncle was found, came upon a guy rifling through Baron’s Camaro,” Captain Williams said.

“Did you get him?”

“No. He chased him, but the suspect disappeared in an alley. We got the car. We’re checking for fingerprints.” He paused. “The car registration was on the seat. We figure he was searching for an address.”

Or a name. If the killer managed to activate the ring, he might come looking for answers.

The captain continued. “I heard there was a break-in at your and Baron’s place. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Alexi lied. “There doesn’t appear to be anything missing, and I’ve already had new locks put on all the doors.”

“I thought you had an alarm system.”

She sighed. “I do. But, like an idiot, I forgot to arm it.”

“Grief does strange things to people,” the captain said gently.

“So I’m learning.”

“Well, I’ll keep you informed.”

“Captain, about my bereavement leave—”

“No buts, Jordan. You’re taking it.”

The line went dead and Alexi made a face at the receiver.

“Told you he wouldn’t cave,” Rhys said. “So what’s the news?”

“Found the car. Lost the suspect. No forensic evidence yet. Not very encouraging.”

“Could be worse.”

She wasn’t sure how. A murdered uncle. A missing ring. And a mysterious woman who was a possible foe. That all seemed pretty bad to her. Right now, the only bright spot in all of this was Rhys and the support he’d given her.

“Not that I believe we’re going to find anything in this stack,” she said as she plunked down Baron’s client files in front of her partner, “but I suppose we should go through them, too.”

Thinking they might find a clue about the dress or a motive other than mugging for the murder, Rhys had insisted they go through all of Baron’s case files for the last five years.

There’d be no cross-dressing information. She’d found the last file Baron worked—an infidelity case for a disgruntled wife named Tammy Errol—and hid it beneath the stack she was working on, planning to contact the woman later. Alexi suspected Baron might have been undercover scoping out the cheating husband. It was the only reason she could figure out for his mimic shifting. Nothing else made nearly as much sense, or left her feeling good about what her uncle might have been doing.

As for other motives for his murder, that search kept the focus on Baron, their relationship professional, and kept Rhys from asking more personal questions. She hoped her uncle’s death was just a mugging gone wrong. Anything else could spell danger with capital letters. She didn’t want to even go there. Especially now.

After the night spent in Rhys’ arms pretending she slept—because every fiber of her being had been strung so tight from his touch she thought she might die—she believed Rhys was getting ready to make a move they’d both been skirting around for months now. If he’d decided the time was right, she knew there’d be no stopping him.

She had far more important priorities to deal with. Like finding the ring, without revealing what it was, researching who Sylvia was and how she fit into everything, and figuring out how to do all that without Rhys knowing. Not a small order. Maybe that week of bereavement leave wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Got something.” Rhys pitched a file across the desk to Alexi. “Baron helped put a couple of creeps in the pen. They got out a couple of weeks ago. One of the prison guards warned Baron about threats they made while they were incarcerated.”

Alexi thumbed through the papers. “And you think they might have been responsible for Baron’s murder?”

“Their threats are enough to haul them in for questioning.”

Shoving the file back to Rhys, she stood. “Beats sitting here. Let’s get down to the precinct.”

“You stay here and keep searching through the files. I’ll bring back take-out.”

Just what she’d hoped he’d do. Keep her sequestered and away from prying, yet sympathetic, eyes. A few hours to herself would give her time to go through Baron’s things for information about Sylvia. “Chinese?” she suggested. “I have a yen for some Wor Sue Gai from the Cantonese Shack.”

Rhys grimaced. “That’s across town. Speedy Wok?”

She shook her head and repeated, “Cantonese Shack.” That ought to buy her another hour.

Tucking the file under his arm, Rhys headed for the front door. “Set the alarm system.”

She made a face at him. He was never going to let her live that down.

“I’m not kidding. The guy who broke in here last night might come back to try and rob you again.”

“Most perps don’t try again after being shot at.”

“The guy could be Baron’s killer.”

“And what would he want? Baron’s gone. If they wanted revenge, they got it.”

“Don’t know. Not yet.” When he got to the doorway he redirected his attention to her, a worried frown creasing his forehead. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

The door closed behind Rhys. Fishing in the table drawer next to the door, she removed her gun, and then set the alarm. If someone tried to kill her again, she would be ready.

She started her search in Baron’s safe. That was as good a place as any other.

The safe held a few legal documents: a will, the deed to the house, insurance papers—all things she would have to deal with eventually. Setting them aside she peered into the back of the safe where she found a fat package wrapped in brown craft paper and tied with twine. Recognition dawned as she unwrapped a worn photograph album.

Memories flooded back, drowning her in emotions as she recognized page-upon-page of old family photographs with her mother’s tiny, precise handwriting underneath each picture. She remembered the book. As a child, she watched her mother patiently paste corners on the black paper and ease photos into them. Each picture had a story, briefly alluded to beneath the photograph. Stories Alexi had nearly forgotten in the two decades since her family’s death.

Gently, she touched the faded photographs of her grandparents, her dad and Baron, and her mother and older brother. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall her mother’s voice, but she could no longer hear the soft Scottish burr tempered with a Kentucky drawl. Her father’s voice, which sounded much like Baron’s, rang strong in her memory. His admonitions and advice sounded as clearly as if he stood next to her. His words, as well as Baron’s, had guided her all her life.

For nearly half an hour, she sat at Baron’s desk flipping through the book, remembering and mourning. When she turned the last page she found four empty slots. Someone had marked through the titles, the lines deep and jerky. Alexi switched on the desk lamp and held the page closer to the light. She managed to make out the words
Baron and Sylvia
.

Sylvia had been telling the truth.
But where were the pictures?

Among the package wrappings she found a small envelope containing three photos of a man and a girl at various ages. She recognized Baron, but she couldn’t place the girl.

The words
Baron with his new mentee Sylvia,
written in her mother’s tight script, covered the back of
the picture where the girl appeared to be the youngest. Baron and Sylvia posed together awkwardly, as if they barely knew each other. In the next photo, simply labeled
Baron and Sylvia,
Sylvia appeared to be a few years older. From the easy way Baron’s arm draped over Sylvia’s shoulder, Alexi knew the relationship had deepened. The pair sat on a couch in the last picture, heads touching intimately.

Baron appeared so happy. She’d never seen that kind of contentment on his face, not since he’d taken over her care at age ten. Raising her, and trying to protect her from whoever killed her family, hadn’t been an easy job. Not that he ever indicated he wanted to do otherwise.

Had she kept her uncle from finding happiness? She hoped not, because he had sacrificed greatly for her and given her much love.

Alexi flipped the photo over. Her mother had titled it
May and December.

That’s how Sylvia described her relationship to Baron. Had her mother given that title to them? Evidently, her mother had known about their connection. Had she been cryptic because the relationship had been frowned upon by others as Sylvia suggested? Perhaps her mother had been trying to protect Sylvia.

Alexi peered closer at the photo. She had so many questions. How old had Sylvia been? Why didn’t she remember her? Her uncle always hung around. Surely Sylvia had been there, especially since the photos were in the family album. Well, not exactly in the album. Had Baron continued to love Sylvia after the break-up? Was that why he kept the photos?

Now that Baron was gone she’d never know, unless Sylvia chose to tell her. Answering those questions wasn’t uppermost in her mind, but verifying Sylvia’s story was. Thanks to her mother, Sylvia’s story checked out.

She matched the photos to the openings and slipped them into the corners. The last photo was missing, the caption completely obliterated. Apparently, Baron had not wanted to keep that memory in any form. That supposition piqued her curiosity even more.