Foul Play, page 8
part #1 of BOOK SIX Series
A dead Swede.
A hit and run.
A kidnapping attempt.
And now, someone had ransacked and destroyed her home.
All because I went to the dang movies!
Some days you just couldn't win.
And no doubt Soren Blackbird would soon return to badger her about things she didn’t know, ask questions she couldn’t answer, and watch her with that piercing, fathomless black gaze, all while cloaked in a compelling intensity that drew her like a bee to honey.
Son of a biscuit!
So what if he’d offered to help with her plants? The man undoubtedly wanted to scope the place out and search for whatever he thought she might have.
Did Bernason give you anything?
Just a panic attack and even more PTSD.
Peri looked around at the destruction. She was tired; she needed coffee. And she needed to go down and check on Magnus. The realization that he’d been hurt because those jerks had come for her–
“Settle down,” she told herself and unfisted her hands.
But the fury continued to burn. She had few people; Magnus was one of them. And she would do whatever was necessary to protect him. She might not be her daddy, but there was enough of him in her that anyone who made her their enemy would come to regret it.
Foolish of them, considering she didn’t have whatever it was they were looking for. The Swede hadn’t given her anything; there hadn’t been time.
He’d been too busy dying.
It wasn’t like he’d slipped her a clandestine package! She hadn’t even stayed with him–she’d gone to get help. There’d been no hand off of sensitive information, no delivery of a cigarette pack stuffed with stolen microfilm, no secret stash left in her coat pocket–
Peri froze.
She hadn’t looked in her coat pocket.
Instead, she’d stripped off her clothes and tossed them in the washer. A man had died beside her, after all.
Which meant that her fleece coat was still in the washer.
Wasn’t it? Did ransackers check the laundry?
Her heart suddenly a hammer in her chest, Peri hurried to the kitchen and pulled open the door that hid her stackable washer and dryer. She yanked open the door of the washer and found her coat, still sitting where she’d left it.
Unmolested.
Probably nothing; a wild goose chase. This whole thing is nutso. Wrong place, wrong time. Innocent bystander!
But she pulled out the coat, a soft shell fleece from her time with BioSphere, and it had five pockets, all zippered. She checked each one, her blood a dull roar in her ears, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed when each pocket came up empty. By the time she got to the small breast pocket, she was silently berating herself for even thinking—holy crow!
There was something there.
Something small and smooth and cool to the touch. She pulled it out: a tiny, silver USB, so little it could have been a zipper tab.
A tiny, silver USB!
Peri stared at it and swallowed.
It wasn’t hers. Not only had she never seen it before, she’d never purchase something so delicate. Her gear had to stand up to anything–that included her tech.
The tiny external drive did not belong to her.
She whirled and hurried toward her broken desk, only to remember that her laptop was AWOL.
Dang!
She grabbed her phone from the counter and unlocked it. It didn’t have a USB port, but she had a USB-C hub somewhere that would enable her to connect the drive.
She looked around, almost dizzy with adrenaline. There! The contents of her desk drawer lay scattered across the floor; the hub sat next to her post-it notes. She swiped it up, jammed it into her phone, and plugged in the USB.
Impatience speared through her as she waited for it to appear. As soon as it did, she opened the drive.
It contained an AutoCAD file and a jpeg.
Nothing else.
AutoCAD was drafting software she didn’t have. And software the library likely didn’t have, either.
But the FBI would.
“Buttheads,” she muttered and opened the jpeg.
The image loaded at a snail’s pace, finally revealing a photo of a receipt for a postal box rental from a place called Mailboxes R Us.
Box Number 198673, Code 789365JH1. 798 Centennial Street, Suite G, Portland, Oregon.
Another 100 mile trek across hell’s half acre into the city.
But Peri was betting it would be worth it.
TEN
Atropa Belladonna.
“I almost missed it. The usual suspects are ethylene glycol, arsenic, or cyanide. I rarely see Belladonna. That said, it gets the job done quite effectively.” Dr. Sayid Patel shook his head as he stared down at the ashen form of Jorgen Bernason. The Swede’s face was contorted, as if he’d died screaming, his hands clenched into tight fists. Even his feet were curled, as if every part of him had seized in death. Stitches formed a large Y across his chest, and his big-boned frame nearly overflowed the stainless steel slab. “Mr. Bernason died from cardiac arrest, which is typical in Belladonna poisoning. He ingested it, and with the onset of the poison would have come blurred vision, loss of balance, delirium, and convulsions.”
Was he poisoned?
Peri’s question echoed in Soren’s head, and he wondered what she’d seen in the moments before Jorgen Bernason had died. She hadn’t been heavy on details. But having witnessed more than one death himself, Soren couldn’t blame her.
“How long from ingestion until death?” he asked.
“Hard to say.” Patel shrugged. “I found no remnants of the plant in his stomach, so I believe he consumed it in liquid form. But the toxin’s derivative–berries or plant root–would have determined how quickly it acted. An hour would be a safe guess–but again, that is just a guess.”
A timeline that cleared Peri. Not that Soren believed she’d poisoned the Swede, but still.
“Is Belladonna common?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t say common, but it is cultivated and utilized by Pharmaceutical companies, so it is not uncommon. Like hemlock, oleander, or even jewelweed, it can be grown anywhere by anyone. I daresay tracing it would be impossible.”
Great.
“I will offer my thoughts if you are open to them?” Patel turned to look at Soren. He was a slender man of Indian descent, his dark brown gaze serious.
“Be my guest,” Soren told him.
“Poison is an intimate method of murder. A bullet is the preferable choice: effective, impersonal, and easily accomplished from a safe distance. But poison takes close contact, and in my experience, the agent is usually administered by someone close to the victim. That said, poison is also utilized by certain governments, and considering Mr. Bernason’s line of work, that is not an impossibility. There are also well-known cases of poison being introduced to retail products by unknown perpetrators. But this feels…personal .”
Soren agreed. Whoever had killed Bernason was able to get close, and for a man in a country not his own, that would take someone he knew. Someone he trusted.
Someone whose identity was a complete goddamn mystery.
“If you find anything else,” Soren said. “Please call me.”
Patel accepted the business card he offered and nodded. “The Swedish embassy very much wants Mr. Bernason’s body released so it can be sent to his family.”
His family.
Guilt stabbed through Soren. Not once had he thought about Jorgen Bernason’s family. He knew the Swede wasn’t married, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a partner. Or a family. A mother; a father. Siblings. Maybe even children.
People who would mourn him; people who would want justice.
Justice it was Soren’s job to deliver.
He’d gotten so caught up in his annoyance over this unwelcome assignment–and so distracted by Peri O'Brien–that he’d forgotten his responsibilities.
Goddamn it.
“The investigation is still open,” he told Patel. “We can’t release the body until it’s closed. If they give you any grief, have them call Special Agent Alexander Chi in the Portland office.”
“I will do that, thank you.”
Soren’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he excused himself, stepping out into the hall.
Chi.
Who knew nothing of Peri, the Albino, or the crazytown Soren was currently navigating, none of which he looked forward to disclosing. Chi and Sven Nilsson had known each other, and the Special Agent in Charge was taking the Nilssons’ deaths very personally. He wanted blood.
Soren reluctantly answered, “Blackbird.”
“Why is Jax hunting an albino?”
Shit. “Bernason’s tail.”
“An albino?”
“Don’t ask me. It’s your case. Did Jax find him?”
“Not yet, but she’s enjoying the challenge.” Chi paused. “What about the woman from the theater?”
“She’s clean,” Soren said.
“What the hell does that mean? Who is she?”
“An elementary school teacher.”
Which wasn’t a lie.
“Is she connected to Bernason?” Chi wanted to know.
“No.”
He made an impatient sound. “Have you interviewed her?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
But Soren had nothing to share. He trusted Chi; they’d known each other a long time. But he didn’t trust how Chi would react to Peri’s identity. Despite who she’d become, Chi—hell, the entire Bureau—would focus only on her family tree. Chi would haul her in and threaten her at best; lock her up and interrogate her at worst, the thought of which made Soren deeply uneasy.
Because he wasn’t sure how he would react to that, and he didn’t want to find out.
“Wrong place, wrong time,” he said finally.
“Fuck!”
Which pretty much summed things up.
“I’ve been ordered to put Maja Nilsson on a train to Chicago,” Chi muttered. “But until we know what the hell is going on, that kid is staying put.”
A rebellious move for a man like Chi, who was a stickler for following rules. “A train?”
“Sven’s sister is coming to collect her. Astrid is the only family the kid has left.”
He sounded grim. “You don’t like her?”
“Doesn’t matter what I like. There’s fuck-all I can do about it. I just want to keep Maja safe. She’s my responsibility, and until I know who killed Sven and Ana, she’s not going anywhere.”
Chi cared for the girl, Soren realized. Which meant he and Sven Nilsson had more than known each other—they’d been friends.
“Bernason was poisoned,” he said, changing the subject. “Belladonna. It’s rare according to the ME, but not unheard of. And easy to lay hands on.”
“Shit,” Chi said, and Soren knew he was pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shit.”
Because Patel hadn’t been wrong: plenty of foreign governments utilized poison to protect their interests, and since Bernason had been the attaché to the sitting Swedish Ambassador, that meant a foreign agent was not outside the realm of possibility.
Which widened the suspect pool considerably.
“I knew it wasn’t an accident,” Chi muttered. “Goddamn it.”
“ME’s getting pressure to release the body. I let him know you’d take care of that.”
“No one’s moving Bernason anywhere until this is done.”
That’s what Soren figured.
“What are you going to do while Jax hunts your Albino?” Chi demanded.
“This and that.”
“You’re being cagey, Blackbird. I don’t like it.”
“You brought me into this mess,” Soren retorted, annoyed. “Let me do what I do.”
“Then get me some fucking answers,” Chi snarled and hung up.
That’s the goddamn plan, boss.
At least the autopsy was done. They had a cause of death now–a very specific, personal cause of death–and that was something, even if it felt like nothing. And Jax was on the hunt for the Albino. The next item on the list was to look into Black Sheep.
But first, Soren was going to check on Peri. He hadn’t wanted to leave her weeping and shaking with fury, but she’d wanted him gone, so he went. But she wasn’t safe–someone had targeted her, and considering how many attempts they’d made on her, they would be trying again soon. Which meant he was staying close, whether she liked it or not.
And she would definitely not like it.
Which meant they would spar, a thought that shouldn’t have turned his heartbeat into a heavy, eager drumbeat; shouldn’t have drawn his body exquisitely tight. Shouldn’t have sent adrenaline and anticipation and excitement spiraling through him.
A heady, inexplicable response to her that refused to wane. Peri made him feel alive.
After years spent wading through death.
But deciding she wasn’t his quarry didn’t mean Soren was going to pursue whatever the hell it was that had come into existence between them.
She’d already done enough damage, already managed to crack the impervious shell he existed within, a break Soren had no idea how to mend. The unyielding, icy core of his being was fracturing, tiny fissures that threatened to shatter the entire foundation of who he was.
Change was not welcome in his world. That life was fluid and without permanence was something his grandmother had lived with in harmony, but Soren refused to make peace with life’s lack of stability. The unpredictable nature of existence was like an unending storm, destroying everything in its wake.
At least in the darkness, it was quiet and still.
Safe.
But he knew that was only illusion, a construct he clung to in order to make sense of a world that made no sense at all. To survive the blood and death that churned within the storm; to turn aside the suffocating grief that always followed.
Peri was changing everything. Another storm.
One Soren wasn’t certain he could weather and remain untouched. Already he was remembering, ruminating, questioning. Examining the man he was; mourning the man he might have become.
Brooding over the immense chasm between the two.
Already she had affected him.
Need to get this shit done and get out before it’s too goddamn late.
But he was afraid it was already too goddamn late.
ELEVEN
Dearest Jorgen,
It has taken me days to summon the courage to sit down and write these words. If I manage to get them posted, it will be a sheer miracle!
Perhaps my hesitation seems silly, when we had such a pleasant time together, but I am a rather unique specimen, and certainly not to everyone’s taste. As I am so endlessly reminded! But you appeared to feel the same instant, ephemeral connection as I, and so I have decided to be brave and send you this missive in hopes that it was not something I imagined.
Since your visit, I have finished The Lady in Pink, and she has turned out quite magnificently. If only I could share her! I cannot wait to be free of this place. Someday my work will hang in Paris, and the whole world will clamor to gain but a glimpse of my genius.
You are probably laughing, but a girl must have goals.
Autumn is arriving, and the leaves have begun to turn. The intensity of their color burns inside of me like living fire, and sometimes I want to surrender. But then I remember your sky-blue gaze, and I know I must resist. There is a life beyond this existence, and I must simply wait patiently for its arrival.
No matter the grief that simmers within me. No matter the whispers that urge me to flee this rotten, gilded cage.
Perhaps I should not share such things, but you did not shy from me as most do. You listened, you questioned, and you made me feel…normal.
When no one has ever made me feel normal.
I do hope you welcome this letter and my warm thoughts of you.
Eagerly awaiting your response,
A.
There were dozens of letters. Tied together with a thin leather strap and wrapped in a red silk scarf, they were the sole occupant of Jorgen Bernason’s rented postal box.
Some were only a few sentences long; others were small tomes crowded with skinny, scrawling script that was undoubtedly feminine, page after page of musings and flirtation, punctuated by dark references to imprisonment and ominous “whispers.” It was a flow of raw, unfiltered, and sometimes unnerving, consciousness, and reading it made goosebumps ripple across Peri’s skin.
She wasn’t sure what to make of them. They were deeply personal and documented in detail an intense love affair. But why they were stashed in a rented postal box halfway across the world from the country in which they’d been postmarked was a complete mystery. Why would Jorgen Bernason bring them to the U.S.? Why would he hide them?
Because they’d definitely been hidden. Mailboxes R Us was a filthy little crypt stuck in an errant arm of an ugly strip mall in the seediest part of the city. It was not a place anyone would have traveled unless necessary.
So why had it been necessary?
“Dang,” Peri muttered.
She’d been so certain she would find answers. Something that made sense of the chaos that had descended so abruptly, but all she’d discovered were more questions.
And the only one who could answer them was a dead man.
She unfolded another letter.
Dearest Jorgen,
Watching you fly away today was the most difficult thing I have ever done. You are my sole glimmer of sanity amongst the madness, the only voice I know to be true.
When they took away the light, I nearly gave up, certain I would never again know joy. But then you appeared, waking me from my mindless slumber, breathing me back to life!
Now I find myself suffocating beneath expectation, my hunger for freedom so ravenous, I fear it will overtake all of my deliberations and leave only blood in its wake. The whispers laugh at my impotence.
It is so difficult to resist! But I know you will not forgive me should I follow them. That it will ruin us. But I do not know how much longer I can withstand the onslaught.
