Generation 18 (Spook Squad 2)

Situated in Parkville, opposite the grand old Royal Park, the two-story apartment block was a carefully renovated remnant of the Victorian age. Gabriel owned the whole top floor, and the view from the front windows was a sea of green. It was like living in the treetops, she mused, and wondered if that was why he’d bought it. Perhaps it appeased some need in his hawk soul.

The color scheme within the apartment complemented the leafy view, with sandstone-colored walls and faded turquoise doors and frames. Brightly patterned rugs were scattered across the polished floorboards, topped by dark blue leather sofas that had seen better times. It reminded her of the southwestern décor in Stephan’s house and yet, oddly enough, there were no photos of Stephan here—no photos of any family. Maybe it was a precautionary measure. Maybe he didn’t want to risk anyone breaking in and discovering just whom he was related to. Certainly that information wasn’t available on any computer; she’d checked the SIU files some weeks back.

Gabriel himself used the com-unit in the kitchen. His long legs, crossed at the feet, were stretched out under the table. No doubt he’d wander back in soon with m

ore coffee to keep her awake.

The com-unit pinged softly. The tape had finished rewinding. She turned around. “Fast-forward to twelve fifteen, then play.”

The murderer must have arrived sometime between then and twelve thirty. The doctor had patients booked up until twelve. Allowing the usual ten or fifteen minutes per patient, the last appointment would have walked out around twelve fifteen. The postman—or woman, as was the case here—had walked in at twelve eighteen, and the doctor had been alive and alone.

“Playing,” the com-unit intoned.

She leaned sideways against the desk, propping her head up with her hand. This was the fourth time she’d watched this particular run of film. She could just about cue each person.

Yawning hugely, she watched the postwoman, dressed in a yellow raincoat, carry a handful of letters and a small parcel into the doctor’s office. On the far edge of the screen, a man in a badly cut blue suit headed toward the stairs. Nothing further happened for a good five minutes; then the lunchtime rush began.

The yellow-clad postwoman walked back out. She glanced at the clock. Twelve twenty-two. After that, nothing. People moved in and out of the foyer, but no one went near the doctor’s office. The initial report set the time of death as twelve thirty-one—nine minutes after the postwoman had left. Given the extent of the doctor’s wounds, and the fact that she’d died reasonably quickly, it was doubtful whether the postwoman could have been involved. Besides, there wasn’t a speck of blood to be seen on her uniform.

“Rewind tape to twelve twenty-two.”

The computer hummed briefly. “Tape rewound.”

“Find an ID on this woman.” She pointed to the postwoman. Her details were probably in the initial report, but Gabriel had the folder and she didn’t want to walk across the room to check.

“Search started.”

She yawned again and glanced at her watch. It was nearly two o’clock. Surely Gabriel would let her go home soon and get some rest. Twelve hours had just about passed and she seriously needed sleep. Her brain felt like mush.

The tape continued running. She leaned on her hand again and watched it. People flowed through the foyer. A sandwich trolley came out of the elevator and was briefly mobbed by those few who didn’t go out for lunch. She rubbed her forehead again, trying to ease the growing ache between her eyes. It didn’t help.

“Gabriel, have you got any painkillers?”

“Yep. Hang on, and I’ll get you some.” His chair scuffed against the floorboards, then his footsteps moved across the kitchen. She returned her gaze to the screen. And saw the doctor walk out of the office.

At twelve forty-eight.

Seventeen minutes after she’d been murdered.

THE KILLER WAS A MULTI-SHIFTER, Sam thought, staring at the woman on the screen. The counterfeit doctor wore a knee-length white coat and carried a plastic bag in her right hand. She kept her head down, loose brown hair all but covering her face, and headed quickly for the stairs.

“Rewind tape one minute, then freeze,” she said, and glanced up as Gabriel walked into the room. “I think I’ve found your killer.”

He handed her two painkillers and a glass of water, then leaned over the back of her chair and studied the image frozen on the com-screen.

“A shapeshifter?”

“A multi-shifter,” she corrected, “not that it comes as much of a surprise. You said in your report that you suspected a shifter was involved.”

He squatted down beside her chair, his face almost level with hers. “We suspected it, but this is the first evidence we’ve found to confirm it.”

She frowned. “You found nothing on any of the other tapes?”

“No.” His breath washed warmth across her face. “No evidence of anyone going in. The only form of exit appears to be the small hole cut into the bathroom windows.”

“But that makes no sense.” If the killer was a multi-shifter, how the hell was she getting away from the crime scene if not through any doors? “A small hole cut in a window points toward a shapechanger, not a shifter. Can someone be both?”

“Yes, but there are only three registered in Australia, and all those are accounted for.”