The Raven Master. Diana Whitney

One

      New York City, 2009

      The air was stinking hot. A stale breeze carried the muffled noise of human and street traffic. Bad music thumped above; a dog barked below. It was one of those New York nights when no one in the city slept.

      There had been two brownouts in two days, and the forecast called for even higher temperatures tomorrow. The police chief was asking for the public’s cooperation. Would he get it? Damon Marlowe had no idea, and he didn’t care. Hadn’t since leaving the force two years ago.

      Somewhere in the shadows of his Soho studio, a tap dripped. The pipe that fed it rattled, and the walls groaned. If he listened hard enough, he might hear the 1970s wallpaper peeling.

      Stretched out on his sofa, with a cold beer dangling between his fingers, he watched a cockroach crawl along a thin ceiling crack. He counted five, ten tops, a night—a decent average for the neighborhood. There’d been twice as many in his ex’s Los Angeles apartment.

      The memory brought a twinge, then suddenly, there it was—the smothering crush of grief, dulled by time but still a force to be reckoned with. Or locked away when he chose not to deal with it.

      He opted for the lock and a deep pull on the bottle.

      Behind him, his cell phone erupted into classic Eric Clapton. He listened for a moment, swirled his beer, then gave in and reached back.

      “Marlowe,” he said.

      “Would that be Damon Marlowe of DM and Associates?”

      He almost smiled at the man’s polite tone. Slight European accent, perfect diction. Caller ID revealed a Southern California area code.

      “Hours are nine to nine,” he replied and raised the bottle to his lips. “It’s three minutes to midnight here.”

      “I’ll take that as a confirmation and say that I was referred to you by a former colleague, one who currently practices criminal law in Manhattan.”

      “Peter Duggan.”

      The caller seemed impressed. “So your reputation isn’t exaggerated after all. Peter and I worked together in Los Angeles. My name is Umer Lugo. May I ask if you’re engaged at the moment?”

      Marlowe’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I’ve got clients.”

      “Hardly unexpected. However, I’ve been authorized to offer you twice your usual rate, triple if you can finish what needs doing in under five days. I must warn you, though, I have little information about the party to be located.”

      Marlowe’s humor, seldom stirred these days, kicked in. “This offer has a cloak-and-dagger ring to it, Mr. Lugo. As a former homicide cop, I prefer to drop the mystery and cut to the bottom line. Who do you want me to locate and why?”

      “Three years ago, her name was Shannon Hunt. I have no clue what she calls herself today.”

      “Is there an outstanding warrant involved?”

      “Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. The family simply wants her located and returned to the fold.”

      “How old is she?”

      “Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine on Thanksgiving Day of this year. I can send you a photo, but it’s possible she’s altered her appearance.”

      Marlowe rolled the beaded bottle across his forehead. “Why?”

      The lawyer sighed. “Are my reasons important?”

      “If you want me to take the case, yeah.”

      “It’s a matter of some delicacy. Shannon had a falling-out with a grandparent who recently lost his only other grandchild in a vehicular accident. When you’re ninety-two, Mr. Marlowe, and your health is failing, you want to tie things up wherever possible and make amends. I’m sorry, but that’s all the history I can give you. My practice is small but entirely reputable. Check me out if you wish. However, I would ask that you do so quickly. I’ll need an answer by 6:00 a.m. your time.”

      Across the room, Marlowe’s TV showed a carousel in motion. He saw a child’s face fill with excitement as she clutched the golden pole.

      Swinging his legs to the floor, he sat up, ran a hand through his hair. “Ninety-two, huh?”

      “Unfortunately, I don’t see ninety-three in the cards. Will you accept the job?”

      Something in the man’s tone set off a warning bell. Should he listen or not? Marlowe glanced at the TV screen, rocked his head from side to side. “Send me what you have. You check out, I’m on it.”

      “You’re a good man, Mr. Marlowe.”

      A flicker of humor rose, dark and ominous. “Not good,” he corrected. “Just a man.”

      Tossing the phone aside, he got up to snag the last cold beer.

      “DARCY? ARE YOU THERE? For heaven’s sake, answer. I’ve been leaving messages on your phone all day.”

      Elaine Holland sounded cranky, which was the last thing Darcy needed right then. “Radiator hose,” she repeated to the baffled-looking man beside her with the wrench in his hand. She made a slicing motion. “It’s split, leaking. Just take a look, okay?” She turned her attention back to the phone. “Sorry, Elaine, I haven’t checked my messages today. My rental car broke down.” Her eyes traveled around the weedy lot outside what might loosely be called a service station. “I, uh, might be a little late getting back.”

      The mechanic used the wrench to indicate a nearby goat, and Darcy got his message. He’d loan her the animal for a ride. She turned away. “I’m still in Nicaragua. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to describe car parts in Spanish.”

      “So you’re stranded.”

      “Sí.”

      “Damn. Did you talk to Dr. Aquilina?”

      “Talked to, got photos of, visited his lab and his experimental farm. A world food shortage is imminent, in his opinion, but avoidable if we’re willing to open our minds and our stomachs to worms, rye grass and something he calls ‘cocoluna.’ Chocolate from the moon. You don’t want to know the details on that one.” She thought about the feature article she was to write and the looming deadline. “Now, why have you been calling me all day?”

      Her editor huffed. “A guy’s been asking questions about you.”

      That got her attention. Leaving the mechanic to kick her tires, Darcy put some space between them. “What kind of questions?”

      “Odd ones. The name Shannon came up, which meant nothing to me or anyone else at the magazine. But after a while and more than one chat, I realized he was looking for you. Is your middle name Shannon?”

      “No.” Darcy moved into the shade of the sagging station. “What did you tell him?”

      “That you’d been here a little over a year, during which time our circulation has increased. I thought he was a cop at first, but turns out he’s a P.I. So I asked myself, what would a P.I. want with my Darcy? That’s when it hit me. You’re a question mark, kiddo. A lovely person but a puzzle only partly solved. Your parents are dead, aren’t they?”

      “Yes.” Darcy’s gaze swept the choked, brown landscape. “What’s his name?”

      “Damon Marlowe.”

      Meant nothing. “And he looks like…?”

      “The guy’s hot. Tall, very lean, with dark, wavy hair that hasn’t seen a pair of scissors for months. He’s not slick or polished, and as far as I can tell, he shoots from the hip. A bit thin, but the muscles are there for sure. I thought artist when I saw him, then rocker, then cop. Would you believe he has gold eyes? You’d say hazel, but the frustrated novelist in me saw an amber-eyed Heathcliff.”

      Darcy couldn’t visualize