Midnight Redeemer Page 9

  He might well be a killer.

  And it scared her to death when that sentiment failed to stir the proper amount of caution.

  She would see him again. Not because she needed to know more but because she didn't want to stay away.

  What was wrong with her? Was she so desperate for a relationship that she would grab at an attraction to a man who may not have been a man at all?

  Or did the attraction stem from that fact itself?

  Was her interest in Redman all the more intense because of its very impossibility?

  She rubbed her eyes and castigated herself for her lack of judgement, for her lack of reason, for her lack of alarm.

  Even if Louis Redman proved himself innocent of her darkest suspicions, he still wasn't going to be more than a business partner.

  Not a bed partner. Not a life partner.

  She'd just have to get over the disappointment.

  Chapter Eight

  They were the same.

  Stacy stared at the DNA results, a sick sensation seeping through her stomach. There could be no mistake. The multilocus DNA fingerprinting tests she'd run were accurate within 1/135,000,000. Not a lot of wiggle room for even a wannabe skeptic.

  Louis Redman's blood had been found under the floater's fingernails. He had attacked her, viciously, then thrown her off the pier to perish in the icy waters below. He wasn't the sad, benevolent patron whose melancholy struck a kindred chord within her.

  He was killer.

  And now, he was taunting her with that knowledge. By teasing her ambitions with the temptation of a grant. By goading her with her own mortality, sending her a shoe that could have been from her own foot instead of a passing stranger. To keep her silent or to merely torment her? Whichever it was, Stacy didn't like the circumstances. She was a cop's daughter. Her dad may not have been the best father, but he'd been a great cop. He'd always had unswerving integrity. He never compromised right with wrong. He never saw shades of gray. And neither should she. Science didn't recognize gray, only the degree of black or white.

  It was time to go to the police.

  She had enough evidence—if not to convict, then at least to warrant an investigation of Louis Redman. Could she weigh the death of the next innocent victim against the payment the Center had received?

  She sighed and returned her study to the probes of DNA. Such an odd and interesting formation. The potential residing in those combinations may have held the secrets of immunity, of immortality.

  She would never know, if this chance to study Redman escaped her.

  A soft whisper twined around the firm pillars of her conscience.

  What were a few lives compared to the thousands her research might save if her suspicions were correct? What were they when balanced against her own future?

  She pushed out of her chair, the violence of the movement alerting her ever-vigilant watchdog in his seat by the door. Ignoring his questioning stare, she massaged at the tension knotting in the back of her neck.

  Such Godlike decisions weren't hers to make. Harper Research wasn't an extension of Nazi Germany, no matter what the protesters might claim on their hand-lettered signs. Maybe they dabbled in genetic engineering, but not in genocide.

  She glanced at Frank Cobb, noting the chill of his hazel-green eyes. He wouldn't have any difficulty making a choice. It probably came with his on-the-job training. Whatever suited government interests. If she presented him with the details, she wondered what he would do. What would he consider the right thing?

  Not that she planned to give him the information.

  But would turning it over to the authorities place it in any better hands? Were they better suited, better trained to make decisions involving the future of mankind?

  The shrill of her cell phone startled her from her troubled musings.

  "Hey, Stacy, it's Alex. And you're not going to believe what I uncovered."

  "Try me, Alex. I'm rather open-minded these days.” She purposefully turned her back to Cobb so he wasn't privy to her expression.

  "I kept digging. Louis Redman's trail might end here in Seattle about seven years ago, but Luigino Rodmini's goes back to fifteen century Florence."

  "What?"

  "I mean to tell you the guy is good. If I wasn't such a wiz on the Internet, and of course there's Claudia and her overseas connections, I wouldn't have gotten beyond his first few road blocks. He's careful, and he's smart. And if my research can be believed, he's over five hundred years old."

  Shielding the receiver with a cupped hand, she whispered shakily, “You have proof of this?"

  "Oh, baby, all the proof you'll ever need. You don't sound surprised."

  Why wasn't she?

  True, Fitzhugh had prepared her with old folktales and wild suppositions, but had she really, really ever given them any credence? So why was it so easy to take Alex at his word? To believe that Louis Redman's life span was almost five times greater than the average madman's?

  "I'm not saying that I do, yet,” she countered cautiously. “Let me see what you have before I make up my mind. I'm a firm believer in logical explanations."

  He laughed. “If you can find one in this case, I'll be your slave for life. Just promise that I get this story. I'll be doing front page features for the rest of my life once I break this one."

  "Alex, you can't go public with this. Not yet. When it's ready, it's all yours. Okay?"

  "Don't make me wait too long, Stace. You know I don't have a lot of restraint."

  Lowering her voice into a sultry rumble, she cooed, “That's not the way I remember it."

  His laugh was all prideful male. “Yeah, well, what can I say? I'll wait. For you, babe."

  "Can you get everything you have to me this evening?"

  "On a silver platter. I've got to go out of town, but I'll get a courier to run it to your apartment. That work?"

  "That's great. I owe you, Alex."

  "And I'll collect. Count on it."

  She stared at the severed connection for a long, pensive moment.

  It was a whole new ball game now.

  * * * *

  Carrying the bulky parcel from the private courier into her living room, Stacy shoved aside the cartons of Chinese take out and ripped into the mailer envelop. Pouring the contents onto the newly cleared coffee table, she poked through the papers between mouthfuls of Moo Goo Gai Pan. Very quickly, the food was forgotten all together as she stared at the delicious blend of history before her.

  Almost six centuries of documentation. The life of Florentine noble, Luigino Rodmini, a life that instead of ending after an expected number of years, continued with a new name, in a new city. In the early 1800's he surfaced in London, wedding Arabella Howland, the daughter of an acclaimed physician. He was then Louis Radman. As his surname changed to Radouix and his residence to France, Arabella bore him a daughter, Nicole. As Louis Radcliffe, he had appeared in New York near the turn of the century, living with his grandmother, Bella, who was most likely his wheelchair-bound and aged wife. After her death, he married Cassandra Alexander, heiress to a newspaper empire. They disappeared in Europe, their businesses handled by proxy. His daughter, Nicole wed a French expatriate and lived with their daughter, Frederica, on the island of Martinique. Then, more silence as the family seemed to vanish, from print at least, until the wealthy eccentric, Louis Redman set himself up in Seattle.

  How could Rodmini and Redman be one in the same?

  How could they not be, given all the evidence before her?

  She believed in what she could see, touch and prove. All of that was spread out on her coffee table. She'd been in the medical field long enough to have seen quirks of nature and the unthinkable become truth. Somehow Louis Redman had managed to transcend the effects of time. Whether that made him an undead creature of folklore or the victim of a rare blood disorder, she could not deny who he was. He was almost six hundred years her senior and looked to be her peer.

  Was he a fiend who needed
to feed upon human vitality in order to survive? A killer who disguised the evil of what he was behind a suave demeanor and generous checkbook?

  If he had the option and she, the talent, would he willingly offer his unique properties in study for the benefit of mankind? Or was his benevolence just a ruse to hide the darkness of his soul?

  Did he have a soul?

  Nudging the papers back into a single pile, Stacy leaned back in her chair, lost to swirling thought. A sudden bang against her door had her leaping in involuntary alarm. Then, laughing softly at her own jumpiness, she went to the door and peered through the peephole. The hall was empty.

  Frowning slightly, she thought about returning to her chair when a quiet ripple of intuition had her turning the knob instead.

  A small, brown-paper-wrapped box lay on her doorstep.

  She stared at it for a long moment as if it were a cobra basket with the lid askew. Any minute, something lethal would lunge out at her. She stood, sweat gathering on her brow, welling in her palm, itching at her scalp. There were no outward marks on the package but she knew, she knew what it contained.

  It contained evidence of another death.

  Wishing she could close the door and shut out the awful responsibility placed unwanted upon her doormat, she cursed softly and toed the box inside her apartment. As perversely fascinated as that snake charmer defying death by looking inside the basket, Stacy used a thin-bladed knife to slit the packing tape, careful not to get her fingerprints on the wrapping or smudge any that might be there.

  She thought at first that she was looking at someone's pet, a hamster or perhaps a bunny. But as she peered more closely at the soft tangle of gold, she saw it was a length of human hair, a ponytail still bound in a hot pink scrunchie. Her vision blurred. Nausea sank sharp talons into her middle and twisted hard. She felt the hard whack of her unvacuumed rug beneath her fanny as she sat down abruptly, shivers dissolving the strength from her legs like an acid bath reaction.

  It wasn't someone's deceased pet. She was looking at the mocking evidence of another dead girl.

  Hours seemed to pass instead of minutes until her wits gathered enough for her to dial the phone.

  "Charlie?"

  "Stacy? Is that you? What the hell's wrong?"

  The bass boom of his concern helped fortify her.

  "Charlie, has another of those bite victims come in tonight?"

  Good, she sounded better, stronger, almost nonchalant. The phone receiver played an erratic tympani against her ear and jaw as her hand shook fitfully in protest of her pseudo-calm.

  "Let's see. All I have on my agenda for the evening is a gunshot victim from a drug deal gone south, and a hit and run. Were you just curious, or is there something else going on that you're not telling me?"

  Giddy with what would most likely be a short-lived relief, she said, “I just can't get this whole thing out of my mind, I guess. Silly and unprofessional, I know. I was hoping you'd have some more information for me."

  "Nothing yet. The lid's clamped down on this one like a pressure cooker steaming vegetables. Just steam so far. Nothing edible."

  "Thanks, Charlie. Don't forget to call me."

  "Stace, some advice?"

  "Sure, Dad."

  "Get some sleep. Alone, preferably."

  Charlie couldn't see her wry smile or know that her own bed was always solitary when it came to sleep. “Good night, Charlie."

  "Sweet dreams, doll."

  She doubted it. Not while she was waiting for some poor girl to show up somewhere with her hair cropped crudely and her life cut short.

  * * * *

  Stacy was spitting her toothpaste in the sink when she heard it.

  She always listened to the news as she readied for work, the voice from her clock radio her only morning companion. She was only half paying attention when the solemn story hit her in the solar plexus.

  "The body of seventeen-year-old Brianna Kerschner was found by a jogger in Pioneer Square this morning, the victim of an apparent attack. At this time, robbery does not appear to be a motive. Authorities say she was not sexually assaulted."

  The rest of the report details were drowned out by Stacy's retching.

  She made it to the bed, collapsing there in just her slip and heels with a cold washcloth covering her eyes. Her head and her conscience pounded miserably. There was nothing she could have done to prevent the crime. It had already happened by the time the package was delivered to her door.

  It wasn't her fault.

  But then again, it was.

  If she'd turned the earlier evidence in sooner, if she'd made a full statement to the police, perhaps Charlie wouldn't be calling her even now.

  "You heard?” His voice was strangely sympathetic.

  "Yeah. On the radio just a minute ago. Have you seen her yet?"

  "Right here in front of me. Marks on her throat, signs of strangulation, blood loss. And, get this, her hair was chopped off at the scene. There were strands of it all over her coat, like somebody used a knife. Stace? Are you there?"

  "Yeah, Charlie. What was the cause of death?"

  "I'd say, and this is preliminary, that it was massive blood depletion. Another sidebar. I heard there was next to none found at the scene."

  "Thanks, Charlie. I've got to get to work. I'll talk to you later."

  "Yeah. See you on the six o'clock news. I don't think they're going to keep this under wraps much longer."

  After hanging up, Stacy tottered on ridiculously weak legs back into the bathroom to rinse her mouth a second time. The taste of horror still lingered, sour and filled with regret.

  She couldn't help Brianna Kerschner, and she could only hope there'd be time before the next victim was found for her to stop Louis Redman.

  * * * *

  "You look like hell."

  On a better day, her glare would have cut Frank Cobb in half. Today, it sparked and fizzled, her battery too weak to sustain the energy.

  "Coffee?"

  The thought of caffeine chafing on her raw stomach lining made her grimace. “Tea with lots of creamer."

  Cobb raised a single brow into a high arch of wonder, but he said nothing. Wise man.

  Sinking into her computer chair, Stacy slid her briefcase under the desk where it rested against the side of her shoe. In it were the papers from Alex Andrews and a bagged sample of Brianna Kerschner's fair hair. The first, she didn't dare leave unguarded. Perhaps some of Cobb's raging paranoia was rubbing off on her. The hair sample she would test to compare to Charlie's most recent guest.

  Before her courage failed or her shadow returned, she snapped open her cell phone for a quick call.

  "This is Stacy Kimball. I need to see you this evening. I'll be there at seven. There are some things we need to go over regarding the project."

  She rang off, not leaving him any options.

  But she had a feeling that Louis would see her. He was expecting her.

  "Tea with creamer."

  She jumped as Cobb reached in front of her to set the cup on the desk. For a long two minutes, her heart beat wildly in her throat. Cobb was too well trained not to notice and too smart to comment on it. He went to assume his seat by the door, giving Stacy her space as per their agreement.

  Her fate had been set in motion. By calling Redman, or whatever his name was, she'd left herself no alternative. She would meet with him then confront him with what she'd learned. And then, they would either strike a bargain, or he would kill her, too.

  How valuable would one researcher be to a man whose lifetime spanned centuries?

  "Are you all right, Doc?"

  She glanced at Cobb and could only guess at how she looked with her eyes wide, wild and rimmed with red from her earlier worship of the porcelain god. She tried to smile, but her lips began to quiver. She pinched them together and offered a pale facsimile. And to her surprise, her G-man lost his composure watching her trying to cling to her own.

  "None of your bullshit now. I'm not
stupid, and I'm not your enemy, either. Whether you believe it or not, it's my job to help you. Maybe not behind the computer or with whatever bugs you're working with under the microscope, but if something's spooked you, I'm a helluva handy guy to have around."

  And he looked it, too, with his hazel green eyes narrowed and dangerous and his scowl full of woe to whomever might get in her way. Even unarmed, his body was built to be a compact weapon, lean, taut and tempered steel. A handy guy, to be sure, but could she trust him?

  How wonderful it would be to brace Redman with Frank Cobb beside her for support. How gratifying to spill the horrifying events of the past few days and turn their resolution over into his capable hands. He wasn't Ken Fitzhugh. He wouldn't have to concern himself with the law. He was most likely above it. And he would protect her with his life. She knew it. But could she trust him with her secrets, knowing who employed him?

  No. Regretfully, no.

  She smiled in genuine thanks. “It's just some personal stuff, Frank. Nothing anyone can help me with, but I appreciate the offer."

  If she expected him to melt before the bestowal of her charm, she could save her energy. He stared at her unblinkingly, disbelievingly. But he didn't challenge her words.

  "Just remember the offer,” he said at last.

  * * * *

  She wished she'd taken him up on it as she stepped from a cab and through the first set of doors to the Easton. To the polite inquiry of the doorman, she replied, “Mr. Redman is expecting me."

  She waited, breath compressed within her lungs like a deep sea diver's . Her chest ached with anxiety. Her palms were damp. But her gait was all aggressive certainty as she crossed into the elevator at the doorman's affirming gesture.