Dark Taste of Rapture (Alien Huntress 6)

Hector had stiffened at the word Arcadian, then growled at the word teleportation. He must be thinking of the women he’d found, so long ago. The ones in the warehouse who had disappeared while in the hospital. An Arcadian had been suspected then, too, but had never been found.

Noelle knew because she’d maybe kinda sorta peeked at some of his old case files.

“How’d the witness know it was a pyre?” he asked.

Pyres were made for AIR agents, and illegal for civilians to carry. Plus, they weren’t the only weapons that lit up like firecrackers.

“Said there was a flash of bright light, but no booming sound. Said it was the same type of gun he saw agents carrying on that TV show, As the Other World Turns.”

Good show. Gotta catch up on that.

“Anything else?” Hector asked. “You check the tapes for alien voice?”

The officer gulped. “We did. There’s nothing.”

“I want to go over them myself.”

“Of course. As for the rest, the vic was hit in the chest, his organs fried. That’s when the witness screamed, and the three men realized they’d been spotted. They gave chase, but the witness hid and called us.”

“Did he give you descriptions of the three?” Noelle asked, inserting herself into the conversation. My investigation, too, big boy.

Those spec-covered eyes flipped to her, softened. “No. He said it was too dark, and that he only knew one of the men was Arcadian because of the white hair and the instappear act. Which is why we called AIR.”

“Where’s the witness now?” Hector demanded.

A thumb hitched over his thin shoulder. “Back of my car, sir.”

Noelle scanned each of the vehicles and spotted their guy in the back of the farthest, the inside light burning bright. A junkie, she thought. Human. Pasty, papery skin. Red, sunken eyes. Chapped lips. Dirt-streaked his face. He rocked back and forth and was muttering to himself.

“Put him in the back of mine,” Hector instructed. “And post two guards at the doors. Eyes are to be on him at all times.”

“Yes, sir.”

Before the guy could rush off, Hector reached out and withdrew a pair of latex gloves from his uniform pocket. He pulled the latex over the gloves he still wore as he walked to the trunk of Mia’s sedan. There, he grabbed a tool kit.

Expression blank, he ducked under the tape and strode away. All without a word to Noelle. Well, that wasn’t going to stop her. She looked at the elegant length of her dress, then at the ground. With a shrug, she palmed the blade strapped to her thigh—earned a few more whistles—and stripped off the bottom half of the material, leaving herself bare from the top of her knees down. Risqué for a crime scene, sure, but she’d bared more skin at the last cocktail party she’d attended. This way, she wouldn’t brush away any prints.

As the men gaped, she bummed a pair of gloves from one of the officers and followed the same path Hector had taken. All business, she thought. Her personal life would not get in the way.

He crouched beside a dark lump. Once there, she could smell the coppery scent of blood, the release of bowels. Could see … far more than she wanted. The man was on his stomach, his face turned to the side, away from her. She purposely didn’t study that part of him too intently. Already she could see that his mouth was still open in a silent scream.

Hector rolled him to his back, careful, so careful. The vic wore dress slacks, and his button-down shirt had burned away. There was a gaping hole in his chest, the skin at the edges charred, the organs inside deep fried.

“Don’t move,” Hector said, digging through his now open toolbox. He stood before she could remind him that she wasn’t stupid and returned to the tape. He walked the edges, stopping every so often to stake a halogen in the ground.

By the time he reclaimed his place at her side, those lights were bathing the scene with unforgiving purpose, chasing away every soothing shadow.

“What can you tell by glance alone?” Hector asked her. Lines of tension branched from his eyes, his skin losing a little color.

Still trying to teach her, even though she was now considered his equal? Fine. Whatever. “There are no tire tracks. No footprints, either. There’s nothing to suggest the body was dragged. So, even though the witness is a drug addict, he was telling—”

Hector gave a start of surprise.

“Yeah, I noticed that, too. Anyway, he was telling the truth. Our vic was popped here and killed here.”

“What makes you think he wasn’t killed somewhere else and teleported in already dead?”

Was he serious? “Look at the burn marks where he’s lying. He was still frying when he fell on his face, and charred the grass beneath him.”

“Good. What else?”

“Judging by what the witness heard—‘thinking you could blow the lid off my operation’—this was a premeditated crime. Our shooter wants to keep something hidden. And our vic was a good Samaritan trying to take him down. Which suggests he knew his attacker, or at least was connected to him in some way.”

“Good,” he repeated. “Really good observations, Noelle.”

She was used to being patted on the head, told what she needed to do to be better—at everything. His praise, so easily offered, floored her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now what else can you tell about him?”

Suddenly she was desperate to impress him. “Well, he had money.” A soft breeze danced between them, lifting strands of her hair and caressing them over her cheeks.

Hector’s gaze sharpened, as if she’d astounded him. “Explain how you deduced that.”

“His pants. They’re fitted for his frame specifically and not off the rack. Plus, the material is genuine silk rather than a synthetic blend. And look at his shoes. They’re Burbans and go for three thousand dollars a pop.”

A pause, as if he were processing what she’d said. “Good eye.”

The praise lit her up inside. Careful. He could addict her to his compliments as surely as he’d addicted her to his kisses.

“Let’s find out who we’re dealing with.” Hector pressed his lips together, pulled a small ID scan from the box, and gently pressed the man’s thumb into the screen. A blue light appeared, roving from the top of his print to the bottom.

With more care than a man as muscled as Hector should possess, he placed the victim’s hand in the same position he’d found it. Then he read the screen. “Bobby Marks. Five feet eleven, one hundred and eight-five pounds. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Caucasian.”