A Voice in the Dark. Jenna Ryan

at the path lab and creeped out, Noah. Say something pretty so I can erase the picture of dead body parts that are whizzing through my brain.”

      “Bed of roses.”

      She set her head on the wall. “Been listening to Bon Jovi, huh?”

      “That’s why the Boston office snapped you up, Angel. You’re all about extrapolation. Okay, pretty. Close your eyes and imagine the Cape. Turning leaves and bonfires. Think cold nights, a walk in the woods and a glass of wine waiting when you return.”

      A more tranquil smile curved her lips. “You have a truly amazing voice, Graydon. I swear I can smell those leaves burning.” The elevator doors slid open, and she glanced inside. “Yuck. Empty gurney with rumpled sheets.” She sidestepped it as she entered.

      His low chuckle might have brought back the Cape if she hadn’t recalled the unholy hour. A clunk of gears preceded the elevator’s arduous upward climb.

      “I hear you’ve got a body,” he remarked.

      “We do, and I’ve just come from a close encounter with it. It’s big, pale and hairless, a bit like that enormous baby the drunk stork delivered to the wrong people in the Bugs Bunny cartoon.”

      “Well, there’s a picture. Thanks for that, Angel.”

      “Welcome. Do you know what Foret’s story is?”

      “He’s got ties to the White House.”

      “Figured as much. Just please don’t tell me he’s related to someone who’s going to make my life hell until his murder’s solved.”

      “He’s a lawyer.”

      “Explains the eight-hundred-dollar suit.”

      “Attached to the State Department.”

      “Saw the credentials. Tell me what I didn’t see, or probably wouldn’t know.”

      “He’s close personal friends with the current Secretary of State.”

      At last, the inevitable X factor reared its head. “Oh, good. That means there’ll be pressure to solve and close fast. Bergman can’t be aware of the last thing, Noah, or instead of sniveling, his assistant would be apoplectic. Is there any whisper about a dockyard rendezvous?”

      “Give me time, Angel. I just dug up the Secretary of State connection. Any theories yet?”

      Angel caught herself stroking the bottom of her cell phone and gave her fingers a speculative look.

      “Only that I don’t think he was rolled by someone hungry for a fix. It’s true, any cash he had in his wallet was gone, but he was still wearing his platinum Tag Heuer watch, diamond tiepin and ring. Signet, not wedding. So either the killer was dumb as well as desperate, or the money was taken to make Foret’s death look like a really bad mugging.”

      “How did you read the pennies on his eyes?”

      “I’ve heard of similar cases.”

      “Yeah?”

      “Three times last year. Once in Boston, twice in New York. All of the murders had gangland connections. One gang, three killers.”

      “This isn’t gang-related.”

      It wouldn’t be, she thought. Far too simple. “And you know that because?”

      “Victim doesn’t fit the profile.”

      “Yes, well, Noah, it’s late and I’m tired, and it was really cold on that dock. I wasn’t thinking profile so much as get him to Joe and find the largest possible coffee.”

      Another chuckle reached her. It almost reached into her. “Don’t turn diva on me, Angel. It wasn’t a criticism. You only came to Boston eighteen months ago. You can’t know what I do.”

      Eighteen months, and some odd number of days. Angel started to lean a hip on the gurney, but spied the soiled under-sheet and opted for the elevator rail instead. “Waiting, Graydon. What exactly is it you know?”

      “This isn’t an isolated murder.” Softly said, but a chill chased itself along her spine.

      “Definitely do not like the sound of that. Are we talking serial killing?”

      “I’d say so.”

      Frustration crept in as the elevator ground to a halt. “How can you think that already? Have you been talking to Joe?”

      “I don’t have to talk to Joe.”

      “Then how…?”

      “Look for a note.”

      Again, the words were softly uttered; however, far from diminishing their impact, Noah’s tone gave them a punch that silenced Angel’s automatic protest.

      “What kind of note?” she asked instead.

      “A cryptic one. This killer’s looking to be understood, but only by the cleverest of the clever.”

      She pictured him leaning forward in his chair, staring at the rain-smeared city lights outside his window.

      “It’ll be small,” he continued. “Ordinary, like a tossed off scrap of paper. But it will be there. Look hard enough, and you’ll find it.”

      Her resistance dissolved. “You’re the best criminal profiler in the business, Graydon. I trust you more than anyone I know. So I’ll look. And if there’s a note, I’ll find it. Bergman…”

      “Doesn’t need to know about my involvement in this case.”

      His statement surprised her into stopping halfway across the reception area. “Say that again? Don’t tell my boss why I’m doing what I’m doing?”

      “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve withheld, Angel. This one’s for me. Call it a personal favor.”

      She responded to the admissions nurse’s wave with an absent smile. Something stirred deep inside, but she was fairly certain it had nothing to do with correct procedure and everything to do with an overwhelming resurgence of curiosity.

      “Cat with a fish,” she echoed.

      “Is that a yes?”

      The obvious question clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it and looked out into the inky darkness. “You’re a fascinating man, Noah Graydon. I respect you, I like you, and God knows I owe you. So if more mystery’s what you want, I’m in. For your sake and Lionel Foret’s, it’s a yes.”

      INSIDE HIS SPARSELY FURNISHED North Bay loft, Noah propped a bare foot on the windowsill and sipped hot coffee.

      He didn’t bother to rouse himself when he heard the freight elevator clunk past the twelfth floor. He lived alone on thirteen, had since the only other person brave enough to overcome the eighteenth-century ghost story that was part and parcel of the building’s charm had taken a header out a rear window into a row of trashcans below.

      The elevator gate rattled up. Ten seconds later, he heard a knuckle rap, and the door creaked open.

      “It’s me, Noah. You feel like company?”

      Noah rested his head on the chair back. “If I didn’t, would you go away?”

      “Probably not.” Joe came in, collided with a metal stand next to the door and swore. “Friggin’ vampire lighting. Don’t you even want to see where you live?”

      Noah smiled a little. “Did you come here to bitch about my furniture or to pass along useable information?”

      “The second thing, but I swear, some day the first’s gonna cripple me. I smell coffee.”

      “Machine’s still next to the fridge.”

      “That would be the big black box at ten o’clock, right?”

      Noah