Wicked Deeds. Heather Graham

Jackson Crow said.

      His voice over the phone as he spoke to Griffin Pryce was steady—as always. Jackson had pretty much seen it all. As field director of a special unit of the FBI—unofficially known as the Krewe of Hunters—Jackson had just about seen it all, although he’d be the first to say they’d probably never “see it all.”

      The “bizarre” was usually the reason the Krewe got called in.

      “What’s the incident?”

      “You’ve heard of Franklin Verne?” Jackson asked.

      “The writer? Yes, of course. Kind of impossible not to have heard of him—he likes to do his own commercials. He’s known for action books with shades of horror, right?”

      “Yes, that’s right.”

      “What about him?”

      “He’s dead.”

      Griffin frowned, thinking about the night before. He’d actually heard mention of Franklin Verne’s name—he and Vickie had stopped for a damned good dinner and some excellent wine at a spectacular new Baltimore restaurant. Their waiter had mentioned that Franklin Verne was in the city and they were hoping to see him in the restaurant for a meal—and, of course, an endorsement!

      “Griffin?”

      “Yeah. I’m thinking that you’re about to tell me how he died, and since you’re on the phone with me, and you know we’re in Baltimore, I’m assuming he died in Baltimore?”

      “Yes, last night. He was found in the wine cellar of the Black Bird, a new restaurant—”

      “What?” Griffin said. He knew the restaurant—pretty well! It was, in fact, the posh place where he’d taken Vickie last night.

      “The Black Bird,” Jackson repeated.

      “We ate there last night.”

      “Oh. Well, that’s convenient. You know right where it is.”

      “I do. Fell’s Point, not far from where we’re staying. You know Vickie—we found a really great old historic hotel. Blackhawk Harbor House. In fact, I’m standing outside. It’s so wonderfully old and historic, though I can’t seem to make a cell phone call from inside.” He glanced up at the building. It had been built as a hotel in the 1850s—built with concrete and care. It would probably withstand any storm. The hotel was handsome and elegant, and Griffin enjoyed it—but he still found it annoying when he couldn’t get a decent signal on his phone from his room.

      “They sure weren’t expecting Franklin Verne at the restaurant,” he told Jackson. “They talked about the fact that they hoped that he would come in. His patronage would be great for business.”

      “I imagine. Well, he was there—is there. Sadly, he’s dead. At the moment, they’re calling it an accidental death.”

      “Okay. So. How did he die? Was it an accident, possibly...?”

      “A combination of over-the-counter drugs and alcohol,” Jackson said. “That’s a preliminary—the ME, of course, will deny he suggested any true cause as of yet. You know how that works—they won’t know for certain what caused it until all the tests are back. I take it you haven’t seen any news yet?”

      “Jackson, it is 7:30 a.m. This was our last weekend before settling in—me back from a long stint in Boston, and Vickie moving to a new state and an entirely new life. Hey, it was supposed to be free time. We were out late last night. Vickie is still sleeping.”

      “Okay, you haven’t seen the news. Anyway, Franklin Verne used to be quite the wild man, drinking, getting rowdy with friends, playing the type of hard-core character that appears in most of his books. His wife, Monica, put a stop to it a few years back—when the doctors told her he wouldn’t make it to old age. But his body was found in a wine cellar. According to Monica, Franklin had been clean for two full years.”

      “You know all this because...?” Griffin asked him.

      “Because Franklin Verne gave generously to a lot of the same causes our own Adam Harrison holds so dear,” Jackson said.

      Adam Harrison was their senior advisor—he was, in fact, the creator of the Krewe, and a man with a phenomenal ability to put the right people together with the right situation.

      “Naturally,” Jackson continued, “he’s quite good friends with Monica, so... Well, there you have it. He’ll wrangle us an invitation into the investigation eventually—you know him and his abilities with local police.” Jackson hesitated a minute. “Even if we wind up having to tell Monica she lost her husband because he slipped back into addiction, she’ll have the truth of the situation. For the moment, I need you to go make nice with Detective Carl Morris.”

      “Carl Morris, sure,” Griffin said.

      So much for the incredible plans he’d had with Vickie for the day!

      “Addiction, a friend, temptation... It could have been an accident,” Griffin said.

      “Yes. Except that none of the waitstaff saw him in the restaurant, much less down in the wine cellar. And, as I said, Monica—who claims she really knew her husband—is calling it murder.”

      “Ah. Okay, are you coming up?” Griffin asked Jackson. Krewe headquarters was only about an hour and a half—two hours at most—from Baltimore, even counting Beltway traffic.

      “Maybe, but Adam wants to move delicately with this. We’re not invited in yet—Franklin Verne’s death isn’t even considered to be a murder at the moment. But of course, the way the man died, there has to be an autopsy and an investigation. Get started for me, and then give me a call. Let me know what you think.”

      “All right. When did this happen?”

      “He was found about an hour ago. Adam got the call from Monica immediately after she was visited by the police and informed that her husband was dead. If you head in quickly, you’ll see the body in situ. Oh, and one more thing.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Well, it is Baltimore, and Poe is buried there, and, hell, the name of the restaurant isn’t Raven, but it is Black Bird...”

      “What?”

      “He was found gripping a little bird. Yes, a raven, of course. It’s the kind you can find just about anywhere they have Poe souvenirs. Cheap, plastic, black—on a little pedestal with its wings out, beak open...and the word nevermore written on the base.”

      “Like you said, you can buy those souvenirs anywhere.”

      “Yep. And, sorry. Just one more thing again.”

      “What’s that?”

      “He was surrounded by three dead blackbirds. Naturally, of course, no one can figure out how Franklin Verne—or the birds—got into the wine cellar.”

      * * *

      Vickie opened her eyes.

      For a moment, she was disoriented.

      She wasn’t at all sure where she was!

      And then she realized that Griffin was there, looking down at her with concern. A half grin curled his lips, though that grin was far more rueful than amused.

      Grim, even.

      “A nightmare?” he asked her gently, a trace of worry crossing his bronzed face. There wasn’t a reason for her to be having nightmares—at the moment. The Krewe cases with which she’d been involved had come to their conclusions.

      She was in the wonderful hotel in Baltimore’s Fell’s Point where she had enthusiastically suggested they stay on their trip from Boston to Arlington, Virginia—even though they hadn’t really needed to make it an overnight trip, much less a weekend one.

      But she and Griffin had wanted time together.