Angelheart

ANGELHEART

BY

Tatiana March

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Tatiana March

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the permission of the author except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner to create a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

About this Book

About the Author

Chapter One

Darkness had fallen over the red brick industrial buildings in northern Philadelphia. Savannah Blandin wrapped her arms around her body, her designer jeans and short padded jacket inadequate against the cold October wind. She glanced at the gold Rolex watch on her left wrist. Half past eleven. She'd wait another hour, then go home and try again tomorrow.

It was the third night of her vigil. Sooner or later, Clara would have to come.

When a shadow entered the dark alley behind the food processing plant, Savannah ducked behind a dumpster. She'd wait. Let Clara dig into the trash on the sidewalk, become engrossed in her loot. She'd coax the old woman into the homeless shelter, even if she had to keep watch by the rotting produce for a month.

Others had tried and failed. She'd succeed because she cared more.

The sound of shuffling footsteps came to a halt. Then something landed on the sidewalk with a heavy thud. After that, the only sound breaking the silence was the distant drone of a helicopter landing on the rooftop of Hahnemann Hospital.

Odd, Savannah thought.

Usually, a constant stream of angry muttering surrounded Clara like a cloud.

Her heart beating faster, Savannah peeked past the edge of the dumpster. Not Clara, but the dark form of a man, bent over a large object spread out on the ground. She leaned farther, caught a glimpse of something long and pale--a pair of slim legs protruding from the folds of a tattered blanket.

Fear slammed her throat shut, choking off her scream. She struggled to keep breathing, tried to swallow down the bitter bile that surged into her mouth.

Silence. Don't let him see you. Dear God, it can't be. It can't be.

But it was, just like the other time. A black ski mask covered the man's face. The dark windbreaker and baggy canvas pants flapped loose over his wiry strength. Silent, lithe, he bent down to strip away the blanket. The fabric of his shiny parka rustled as he pulled back his arm to reveal the naked body of a teenage girl, sprawled on the concrete between the dumpsters.

Savanna shrank deeper out of sight and crammed her fist against her mouth to muffle the terrified whimper that rose in her throat. Breath rushed in and out through her nostrils, the rasping sound of it filling her ears, as loud as the roar of an ocean.

Don't make any noise. Don't let him see you. Survive. For the sake of Daisy.

Thoughts, memories, ricocheted in her head. She watched the man bend down. A faint snap broke the silence, and then a thin switchblade glinted in his hand. With a careful precision, he made the first cut. Deftly, skimming along the pale skin, he dragged the knife from the hollow of the girl's collarbones, between her breasts, straight down, through the navel. A trail of blood trickled across the girl's neck. Not rising from his crouched position, the man edged along her body. His motions were calm and unhurried as he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and patted away the crimson drops.

Corpses don't bleed. She is alive. Dear God, he hasn't killed her yet.

The nausea broke free. Savannah pressed her hand against her mouth, but vomit seeped through her fingers, scorching her nostrils. She tried to suppress the gagging sounds. A tingling sensation skittered down the scars that marked her own skin, all the way from her throat to her abdomen, and in a crescent beneath each breast. The memory of the pain felt like the eager tip of a knife tracing along the three faint lines.

She knew what he would do next.

Dear God, she knew, and she couldn't stop it. If she made a sound, he'd find her, and then he'd kill them both. As Savannah waited for the man to make the next incision, and the next, screams filled her ears. This girl didn't scream, she was unconscious, and Savannah knew the screams were inside her head, because they came in her own voice, and that of Daisy.

How they had screamed.

First screamed for mercy, and then screamed for death, but he'd given them neither.

Darkness blurred her vision, starting from the outer edges. Savannah eased down to her knees. Hunching her shoulders, she propped one elbow against the concrete sidewalk and lowered to her side. A chill rose from the earth, like death reaching out for her with icy hands. She willed her muscles to go slack. If she fainted, it was vital that she slumped down to the ground without making any sound.

As she lost the last spark of awareness, comprehension flashed through her mind.

He knows I'm here. He wants me to watch. Watch, and remember him.

Back to Contents

Chapter Two

A new case was the last thing Detective Scott Mallory needed at the end of a difficult day. He gave the duty officer a withering look over the top of his computer, but his scowl didn't send Tracy Longman scurrying away.

What is it? he growled.

Tracy replied with a pert smile. There's a woman who thinks she might have witnessed a murder. Wants to talk to a homicide detective.

Shit. Scott glanced at his wrist. I'm clocking off in five minutes. Can't Jorgensen do it? He jerked his head in the direction of the next desk.

I've got to go and kiss ass at the Town Hall. Jorgensen unfolded his six-foot-three frame of athletic perfection from behind the desk and adjusted his uniform jacket. Why do you think I came in dressed like this? I'm a poster boy for the mayor. I've got to convince the media that not all cops are brutal dickheads.

Go screw yourself, Scott muttered, aware that his recent altercation with the press hadn't exactly been a public relations triumph.

I'd rather screw you, Jorgensen replied, his wrist in a camp twist.

Scott couldn't help but grin at the man. Openly gay, Jorgensen had figured out that the best way to blunt any razzing was to get the remarks in first. It worked. Despite his sexual preferences, and the Nordic good looks that allowed him to moonlight as a model for a sportswear catalogue, the newest recruit to the Detective Bureau had been accepted as one of the crowd.

Lifting a hand in a lazy wave, Jorgensen sauntered out of the large room filled with four desks, a battery of filing cabinets, and a collection of aging office hardware, including a printer and a fax machine surrounded by overflowing output trays.

Trust me. I'm doing you a favor. Tracy winked at Scott. This one would be wasted on Jorgensen. I've put her in interview room two.

The last time I trusted you it cost me a hundred bucks and the most boring evening of my life. Scott snagged his sports jacket from the back of the chair and threw it on, hiding the 9mm Beretta in the shoulder holster beneath his left arm. Muscular in build, he seemed to generate enough body heat to keep warm, even after the chief had ordered the temperature in the building to be turned down as part of the latest round of budget cuts.

It was a good deal, Tracy replied, looking back as she scuttled out of his way. Four hours of female company. Cheap at twenty-five bucks an hour.

Four hours of hearing every ailment that had plagued her since birth.

I thought it was a perfect match. Opposites attract, and all that. She's a hypochondriac and a health food freak. You stuff yourself full of crap and never admit that you're ill.

What have I done to deserve your match-making efforts? Scott caught up with Tracy and reached past her to push open the door to the corridor. Raucous laughter from the squad room down the hall assaulted his ears. With only four detectives on duty per shift, the open plan area of the Detective Bureau remained relatively calm in comparison, except for when the telephones went crazy.

You're single, Tracy enlightened him. My husband wants to see you settled down with a woman, so you won't be a temptation to me.

Scott chuckled as he strode along. Tracy was happily married, with two boys in kindergarten and a husband who worked as a current affairs journalist for the local newspaper, but she liked to act as if every man at the station made her weak at the knees. The crews lapped it up, from the greenest rookie to the sixty-year old janitor. Her gentle teasing ensured that she was regarded as everyone's sweetheart, and despite her brunette cheerleader looks, no one dared to hit on her, harass her, or in any way upset her.

One heck of a smart woman, Scott thought as he rapped on the door of interview room two and stepped inside. It was a 'soft room', with comfortable chairs and screened lighting, and a few landscape prints breaking the monotone of the gray walls.

Her scent alerted him before he saw her. A musky perfume, with a hint of vanilla, the kind that made a man want to nuzzle at a woman's neck and find the exact spot where it lingered on her skin.

I'm Detective Mallory. Somehow, he managed to keep his voice normal. For a reason he couldn't even begin to understand, he didn't offer her his hand, but yanked out one of the padded chairs and settled into it.

I'm Savannah Blandin. She pronounced her last name the French way. A trace of New Orleans mixed with her West Coast accent, but her looks weren't Creole. Her hair was light brown, with golden glints. The heavy mass of it had been gathered on top of her head and secured with a jeweled pin. Her skin was very white, as if she rarely went outdoors, and her almost transparent blue eyes gave Scott an odd impression that he was seeing into her mind, but unable to read what he found inside.

He kept his manner brisk while he took her personal details. Single, twenty-eight, not employed. The address she gave was to a mansion along the Main Line. As an afterthought, she added another residence, a condo on Rittenhouse Square in central Philadelphia.

I understand you want to report a murder, he said gruffly.

Yes. Her voice was soft, husky.

Where? When? Scott's jaw tightened at what he'd sounded like. Terse. Hostile. He inhaled a deep breath and slowly released it, forcing his taut muscles to relax.

I was in North Philadelphia on Friday night. She described her exact location. It was around half past ten.

He leaned closer. You were in a bad part of town at night? Alone?

Yes. Her hands were hidden beneath the tabletop, but from the slight movement of her arms he could tell that she was wringing them.

What were you doing there? he asked.

I volunteer at a homeless shelter, and there's this old woman, Clara, who lives on the streets, and won't come in for a meal. There's a food processing plant nearby, and every night they toss any spoiled produce in the big dumpsters behind the building. Clara comes out to look for something to eat. I was hiding beside the trash, waiting for her.

What did you plan to do? Haul her in by force?

No. Savannah looked up from her nervous hands. I was hoping to talk to her. Tell her that if she came into the shelter, no one would touch her things, or force her to have a bath. She could just come inside and get warm.

And instead, you saw someone kill her?

No. Savannah gave a tiny shake of her head. Not her. It was a young girl. I didn't see the man dragging her into the alley. I heard him approach, but I thought it was Clara, and I hid behind a dumpster, so I wouldn't scare her away.

Scott laid down his pen and leaned closer, pressing his palms against the tabletop as his senses sprang to full alert. What exactly did you see?

Her lids fluttered down to shield her eyes. Her mouth was trembling. Instinct told him she was putting on an act. Something in her manner didn't ring true. Her body language reflected the ill conscience of a witness who was lying, or at least withholding information.

While he waited for her to speak, Scott ran another assessing gaze over the woman. The square neckline of her olive green tailored dress displayed a tantalizing amount of cleavage, and the skillfully applied makeup emphasized the curve of her wide mouth, downplaying the slightly too big nose. He had no doubt that the diamonds sparkling at her earlobes were real.

Resentment flared inside him. He'd seen it before, a bored society beauty out for attention from a bit of rough at the police station. Hell, he'd fallen for it before. His fingers curled over the hard edge of the table as an ugly thought crossed his mind. Could it be that Irene and her friends were up to their old tricks again?

The woman cleared her throat, jolting him out of his bitter memories. I saw…a man. Clad in black. Her eyes flickered open, ice blue and guarded. He had a young girl. Maybe sixteen, or a little older. She was naked, unconscious, stretched out on the concrete between the dumpsters. He had a knife, and he began to cut her, in long smooth strokes.

As she described the cuts, her hand swept up and down her body, and then beneath each breast, to show where the killer had sliced his victim. The trance-like quality of her motions made them oddly compelling.

And then? Scott asked, uncertainty knotting in his gut. He couldn't deny that her terror appeared real. No actress could make her skin turn white like that, or suddenly have a frantic pulse hammering at her throat.

I don't know. She gave a slight shrug. I fainted, and when I came to, he was gone. He must have taken the body with him.

How do you know the girl was dead? Did you see her die?

No. Savannah shook her head. I fainted soon after he made the first cut.

Hold on. Scott leaned back in the seat, his eyes narrowing. The anger returned, on a tide of sour resentment. You just described how he cut her three times, first all the way down the front of her torso, and then curving beneath each breast. If you fainted after the first cut, how do you know what he did next?

She stared at him, drawing shaky breaths. Her chest rose and fell, hard enough to send the heavy gold pendant she wore on a chain around her neck rattling in her cleavage. I…

Scott fought to keep his tone even. I want you to think very carefully before you answer my next question. Is it possible that you imagined it all? Nothing happened, no one got killed. There was no young girl, no man with a knife.

No! She made a visible effort to gather herself. "I saw what I just told you. Then I fainted. When I came to, they were gone."

How did you get home?

She hesitated. I rang the chauffeur to come and pick me up.

The chauffeur? His brows edged up. Was he waiting outside for you while you did your volunteering at the shelter? Sitting in the limo parked at the curb?

No. Her voice fell. I took the subway out, and walked the rest of the way.

I see. Subway out to a homeless shelter and a chauffeured limousine back home.

Yes, she replied. I don't drive.

Right. He rose to indicate the interview was over. I get it. You went on a charity mission to a bad neighborhood, witnessed a murder, fainted, and then you called the chauffeur to take you home. And now, five days later, it crossed your mind that you ought to report the incident.

The pause went on, the air between them heavy with antagonism. He waited.

Finally, she answered, I was…unwell for a few days.

He brushed aside the twinge of sympathy. The nearest police station in Philadelphia is only a few of blocks from your condo. You could have reported the incident there. Anything that takes place in the city is their jurisdiction.

I didn't stay in Philadelphia. I came out here. She lowered her gaze. At first, I didn't believe it had really happened. That's why I didn't report the murder immediately. I thought it might have been…nightmares. I get them sometimes.

Nightmares? Images flickered through Scott's mind of her alone at night, frightened, clutching a pillow to her chest. A sudden urge to comfort her soared inside him. He might have given in to the temptation, had she remained still, sitting there in the forlorn silence, but instead, she ducked down to collect the tan leather purse by her feet.

"I know it happened, she told him. When I came to, I inspected the ground. She unzipped her purse and pulled out a small sealed plastic bag. The concrete between the dumpsters was sticky with blood, and I found a handkerchief he must have tossed away. I saw him dab the girl's skin with it while he was cutting her. I had the blood analyzed in a lab. It's human. Type AB, Rhesus negative. Only one percent of the population has that blood type."

Scott reached across the table to take the plastic bag from her and held it up to the light. Inside was a crumpled white cotton handkerchief, matted with stains that were closer to black than crimson in color.

His arm still raised, he slanted a glance at her. You're sure this is from the ground by the dumpsters in that back alley?

Yes.

Doubt and disbelief made Scott hesitate. All right, he said, and placed the bag with the scrap of bloodied cloth on the table between them. I'll pass this on to the PPD and make sure they send someone out to take a look. It's their jurisdiction.

Can you ask them compare the blood against any murder victim brought in since Friday?

Scott frowned as a new and unwelcome scenario stirred in his mind. How far would someone go to seek attention? Women with Munchausen's Syndrome by proxy hurt their own children to bask in the medical mystery of unexplained illnesses. It wouldn't be beyond the realms of possibility that a wealthy socialite could stage a murder to get her kicks.

Yeah, he said, shifting in the seat, his nerves on edge. I'll do that.

Will you let me know? The woman stood and slung her purse over her shoulder. I need to know. The desperate quality of her voice pricked at Scott's conscience. Hell, even if she was a timewaster, it had to be one of those compulsive illnesses, beyond her control.

All right. He picked up his pen again and tapped it against the notepad where he'd jotted down her details. I've got both your addresses and telephone numbers. I'll let you know.

Thank you. She exhaled a long sigh and held out her hand. Detective Mallory, I appreciate your time. I know I should have come forward at once, and I accept it would have made more sense for me to go to the police station in the city, but I just...couldn't. I'm sorry. I understand the delay makes it harder for you to do your job.

Did you not think it might be urgent to report what you saw, in case the girl was still alive and lying injured somewhere? Scott asked as he clasped her slim fingers in his. Her skin felt cold and clammy, and he fought the instinct to rub it warm.

No, she replied flatly, sounding very certain. I knew he'd killed her. She pulled her hand free from his and walked to the exit, halting there, waiting for him to open the door, in the casual manner of a woman who takes it for granted that men will open doors for her.

Scott strode over and yanked the half-glazed panel wide. She brushed past him, her perfume teasing his senses. As she clipped down the corridor in her high heels, he stared after her. The sway of her hips and the long legs that tapered into slim ankles made his stomach clench. Odds were that she was a crackpot, but after nothing more than a brief handshake, he couldn't think of a time when he'd found it so hard to let a woman walk away.

He shook his head in dismay. Would he never learn? Rich and sophisticated seductresses like her spelled trouble. They had nothing lasting to offer to a man like him. His mouth twisted into a smirk as he admitted that once again he had neatly fallen into the overflowing bucket of ordinary men turned on by a female far beyond his reach.

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He didn't believe her. Detective Mallory. His image crowded Savannah's mind as she hurried along the drab corridor. At the front desk, the pretty duty officer stood behind the glass partition, listening to a disheveled woman who screamed in hysterics, lifting her hair aside to display a line of bruises that marred her neck.

Savannah pushed past them, jerked the entrance door open, and bolted. The voices and the shrill ringing of the telephones faded in her ears, but a lingering sense of the dark eyes of Detective Mallory followed her into the crisp autumn afternoon. He'd glared at her with such contempt, she'd almost felt the sting of his anger on her skin, as sharply as she now felt the chill of the early November wind that teased her hair from its topknot.

Attention seeker. That's what he thought of her.

But despite his bristly disapproval, something about him drew her in, made her want to break down and weep in his arms. Tell him everything, and plead him to keep the evil away from her.

Maybe, as he'd suggested, it had all been in her imagination--the attack, the blood on the ground. To add to the nightmare, she might have stumbled on a handkerchief someone had tossed away after using it to stem a nosebleed, or dab at a cut on their skin. For five days, she'd wrestled with the shadows in her mind, trying to separate reality from memories, trying to deny what she'd witnessed by the dumpsters. That's why she'd put off reporting the incident. Eventually, her conscience had forced her to come forward, on the remote chance that it truly had happened.

And yet, how could it have been real?

A random attack of violence in San Francisco three years ago. And now, Philadelphia. A whole continent in between. How could it be the same man? How could he have found her? And why would he want to taunt her by making her watch while he cut up another victim? Savannah inhaled a deep breath and expelled the air from her lungs on a weary sigh. Detective Mallory must be right. It had been a nightmare, rising from the locked corners of her mind, a reminder of the horrors she struggled to forget.

Perhaps she should have had counseling three years ago...

But there'd been no time. There never was enough time.

No, Savannah decided as she made her way down the street, past the no-parking zone. She couldn't tell Detective Mallory about the attack on herself and Daisy. She'd fulfilled her duty by reporting to the police what she might have seen. If she stirred up the past, information might leak and start a flurry of intrusive rumors. Her stepfather would have hated that, Daisy would have hated that. She had to keep her silence. Until the very end, Daisy would have to come first.

Satisfied with her reasoning, Savannah crossed the sidewalk to where the Mercedes limo waited. Henry was reading, and only noticed her when she was one step away. She slipped inside before he had the time to jump out of his seat and circle the car to open the door for her.

Home? the man behind the wheel asked, and smoothed his graying curls before replacing the beaked chauffeur's cap on his head.

No. Savannah slumped against the soft leather seat. Rittenhouse Square.

Are you sure?

Savannah looked up, met the pair of jet-black eyes in the mirror and saw the concern in them. Yes, Henry. She reached over the seatback and clasped his shoulder. I'll be fine.

If you have one of them bad dreams, who's gonna take care of you?

I'll take a sleeping pill.