No One Left To Tell

'That Mickey was a sly dog, hiding it in plain sight like that. Did you happen to find a home for that key?' Tony asked. The elevator door opened, and they stepped inside.

'Not yet. It didn't fit anything in his office or his personal Dunhill locker. But I'm gonna ask around, see if anyone knows about a place outside of work that he could've had a locker or office.'

Once on the ground floor, bundled in her coat, Raven stopped at the front security kiosk to check out of the building.

'Let's grab a bite to eat on our way back—' Raven's cell phone chimed, stopping her in midsentence. 'Mackenzie here. Talk to me.'

'Hey, Raven. It's Scott. Got something interesting on that property search. Looks like your long shot paid off in spades,' the CSI man joked.

'Tell me something good, my friend.'

'We got a download of properties, but there was one that stood out from the rest—an old armory belonging to the Dunhill Corporation. Any bells going off for you?'

'Loud and clear.' She reached into her purse and pulled out a pad and pen to jot down the information. 'Give me the address.'

Tony's voice droned in the background as he grabbed the notepad from her hand. He was on his cell calling in the information so authorization would be granted to enter the vacant property. Thinking ahead, he wanted a jump on the paperwork while they made their way back to the station house.

'I owe you one, buddy. Thanks.' Raven finished her call, then turned to her partner. 'Guess we can forget lunch for now, partner. We got places to be and things to do.'

But her mood quickly changed. Stepping up her pace with Tony by her side, Raven tuned everything out, thinking only of Delacorte as she navigated the busy thoroughfare. She had a bad feeling that Christian was involved in Fiona's mess.

How much did he know?

He had deliberately ditched her earlier. She was sure of it. How far would he go to protect Fiona's interests, or worse, cover up a crime he committed? Her stomach twisted in a knot just examining the many questions in her mind. Could she have been that wrong about him? Even more disturbing—why did she care?

'Don't borrow trouble.' Tony's voice brought her back to the steady hum of traffic.

'What?'

'My mother always used to say that, when she thought I was worrying over something I had no control over,' he ventured. 'Don't borrow trouble, Raven. Let's just see what we see, okay?'

She stopped for a moment to search his eyes, then smiled. 'How did I get to be so lucky, having a partner like you?'

'He works in mysterious ways,' Tony offered.

Surprised by the reference, Raven asked, 'Who? God?'

'No, the chief. Same difference.' Tony laughed.

It reminded her how much she loved her partner.

The limousine rolled quietly through the shabby neighborhood with the full-bodied sound of an orchestra playing faintly over the speakers nearest his ear. Music fortified his tolerance, but did nothing for his disdain at the squalor. He had no sympathy. There would always be poor.

'How else would civility stand out if not for the dregs of society?' His voice resounded off the glass pane. Boredom tainted his tone.

Gazing through the window, Nicholas Charboneau bore witness to the depth of disgrace as if it were a boorish documentary unfolding. He distanced himself from it. On the surface, a thin shield of bulletproof glass insulated him from the rest of humanity. Yet so much more distinguished him from the multitudes.

Slender pale fingers slid down his thigh, long red nails glistening. The scent of exotic spice wafted by him. Turning, he met her eyes. For as long as he'd known her, touch had been her preferred way of communicating. She quietly observed life when it suited her, but her sultry voice beckoned his complete attention.

'You forget yourself, Nicky. Remember, you thrive on the misfortune of others. Do not now condemn them.'

Elegantly dressed, the petite woman at his side wore a silk dress of midnight blue, her coat tossed onto the seat. Her dark hair was pulled loosely from her face, accentuating her slender neck and delectable jawline. Because she was of Chinese descent, her serene dark eyes masterfully slanted, giving her a mysterious and intelligent quality. Flawless skin reminded him of creamery butter.

His young bodyguard was exquisite—and quite deadly.

'You know me well. And you are most correct, dear one. I can attribute my livelihood to the weaknesses of others. In theory, I should celebrate their adversity.'

Good-naturedly, he laughed at her bold observation.

Being the heir to a crime family, he often found himself surrounded by people who guarded their true opinion. They told him only what they thought he wanted to hear. Not Jasmine Lee. She always spoke her mind. He remembered how they'd met. And it always brought a smile to his lips.

Glancing down at her delicate hands, he remembered the time that he'd witnessed those graceful fingers taking a life, when she was barely out of her teen years. In a rough area of downtown Chicago, he'd accompanied a rather shady friend to some forgettable jazz club. Not much remained in his memory of that night, except for the vivid details of Jasmine. The man had been many times her size and looked as if he had instigated the confrontation. In actuality, she had quietly spurred him on and wielded a knife to make her point. For her part, and to witnesses, it would appear to be self-defense, but he recognized premeditation when he saw it. And he'd noticed with admiration that fear never once shadowed her face. The attack was over almost before it began, and she never hesitated to do what had to be done.

But it wasn't her efficiency that piqued his interest.

It was the essence behind her enigmatic eyes, vessels brimming with a lust for life—and death. She seemed to enjoy the kill, such a rare and valuable quality in an employee, much less one so beautiful. Yet she held her vulnerability restrained, not letting it show until later. She had killed the man for a sin he had committed against her family. It wasn't until later that she told him the whole story, and he admired her all the more.

The adrenaline rush compelled him to act, to take her into his life and eventually hire her. Yet a deeper desire to harness her savagery, for his own benefit, drew her into his inner circle—and into his bed. Her loyalty knew no bounds.

'We're almost there, Mantis.'

His affectionate nickname for her brought a graceful curve to her lips, pleasing him immensely. The female praying mantis always devoured the head of the male in the throes of copulation. He often wondered if the male of the species believed such sacrifice to be worth the extra effort.

'I apologize for subjecting you to this unpleasant business. As soon as we conclude this distasteful interlude, I shall make it up to you over dinner.'

'Just being in your company comforts me, Nicky.'

Nicky. Prior to Jasmine, it had been many years since someone had called him by that name. His bodyguard and confidante had no idea that the nickname engendered many bittersweet memories in him. Only one other person called him Nicky. And he had already taken a course of action to destroy a woman he still loved. Memories flooded his mind, back to his early twenties—a lifetime ago.

Feeling like Romeo to her Juliet, Nicholas couldn't resist a young woman named Fiona Fitzgerald. In her late teens, she'd captivated his complete attention during an intermission in the opera La Boheme, her lithe form made even more beautiful by the white beaded gown she wore. Although their affair had been torrid from the start, it was all too brief, cut short by her arranged betrothal to Charles Dunhill, the heir apparent of a rival crime family to his own.

He never understood why she chose another. Especially since he felt so sure she loved him. Fortified by the invincibility of youth, he begged her to marry him instead, in total disregard of his own safety. For her love, he'd been willing to wage war against his rival. But in the end, she refused to see him, not giving him the satisfaction of