Carnal Sin

Why did she think she belonged? She was as alone now as she’d been the day Peter died. One year of bliss in a lifetime filled with pain, loss, and violence.

“I must ask you,” he continued, “did Raphael use magic?”

Another unexpected question. Rico was full of surprises.

She answered as truthfully as she could, but still felt as though she was betraying both Rafe and Rico. She didn’t want to lie, but what was the truth?

“I don’t know.” She didn’t like the look on Rico’s face. Though he didn’t display any emotion she could identify, she knew Rico well enough to know that he was concerned about something-almost worried. Very unlike him. “Why do you think he did?”

“I read Anthony’s report. There are questions. Anthony may be too close to Raphael to … be impartial. And he doesn’t understand magic like you do.”

“There was so much magic flying around I could barely discern individual spells, let alone who was wielding the power. It was awful.” She paused, then asked Rico the question that had been on her mind since the moment she first saw him. That it effectively changed the subject was an added benefit. “Have you heard anything about Fiona? Where she’s hiding?”

He shook his head. “You will be the first to know, Moira. I can search for her all I want, but you’ll be the one to find her. You know that. For seven years, you’ve been the only one who could.”

“Oh, joy.”

He took both her hands and held them. How unlike Rico, showing compassion. “I am not going to lie to you, Moira. Our war will get harder. Defeating Fiona is only part of the whole. You must destroy the Conoscenza.”

“That damn book!” She looked around at the dead earth. That book-the Book of Knowledge, the ancient grimoire filled with spells allegedly written in demon blood-was supposed to have been destroyed more than a century ago. But Fiona had searched for it and found it, believing it would give her the key to immortality. And perhaps it would. Fiona didn’t care about the cost; she didn’t care about anything but her own selfish desires. The Seven Deadly Sins she’d released from Hell were only the beginning, and Moira would do everything in her power to stop her.

Except use magic. Her attempt to stop Fiona with magic before had left the only person she’d ever loved dead, and Moira herself somehow connected to the underworld in ways she certainly didn’t understand. She doubted even Rico or Father Philip understood. Which was why everyone was wary around her. Suspicious, like Anthony.

“Have you figured out how I’m supposed to get rid of this book?”

“No. But Dr. Lieber has agreed to meet with Anthony. We hope to have answers very soon.”

She should be happy with the news, but the way Rico said it, a blanket of foreboding suffocated her.

“Terrific!” she said with fake enthusiasm. “I can hardly wait.”

“Moira, please be careful.”

“Always.” She winked at him. “I’m running back to the house. See if you can keep up.”

She ran, not waiting for an answer to her unspoken challenge, sure he wasn’t telling her everything, but not knowing whether it was because he didn’t want to or whether his silence was due to orders from a higher power. She wished she knew exactly who was calling the shots. She hated being a pawn.

Either way, Rico was keeping secrets from her and those secrets were going to hurt her.

Or get her killed.

TWO

After seventeen years on the force, the last nine as detective, Detective Grant Nelson trusted his gut instincts. They were rarely wrong. While he would wait for the evidence, Grant was confident that the death of George Erickson was the result of sex games turned deadly.

Grant assessed the murder scene. Private home in upscale Westwood, wife out for the night with friends, bedroom set up for a romantic tryst with candles, champagne, and the sultry voice of Patsy Cline playing in the background.

And of course the dead guy, on his back buck naked on the fully made bed, with no visible cause of death. Heart attack or OD; Grant opted for heart attack because there was no vomit or signs of violent convulsions, no obvious signs of drug use or abuse. Did the mistress panic and bail? If so, they’d probably pick up her prints. Or did Erickson collapse from the exhaustion of his sexcapade? Walk the woman out, then drop dead of a heart attack? Or maybe the wife caught him sleeping off a drunk, realized she hadn’t been the recipient of the mood music and champagne, and suffocated him with a pillow. Whichever scenario, they had some legwork ahead of them to put together the pieces. This was the part of police work Grant enjoyed-the puzzle.

“Only one glass of champagne.” Grant’s new partner, Jeff Johnston, walked slowly around the room. Johnston, who looked like the football lineman he’d been in college, had been a uniformed officer in the Devonshire Division before his recent promotion. He peered into the trash can in the corner. “Scratch that. There’s another glass in a million pieces. Think CSI can put Humpty Dumpty back together again and print it?”

Grant stared at the shattered crystal. Why toss the glass? Another puzzle piece for him to fit. Not reporting the death is one thing; covering up her identity quite another. Could be a hooker with a rap sheet.

CSI and the deputy coroner arrived. Grant and Jeff left them to process the scene while they sought out the deceased’s wife. Officer Ann Timmons had been consoling Mrs. Pamela Erickson. She stood and approached them when Grant and Jeff entered the living room.

She rolled her eyes. “Good luck.”

Odd, Grant thought as Timmons met up with her partner on the front porch.

Pamela Erickson was pretty-though on the skinny side-with red-rimmed eyes and her long brown hair up in the back. She was pissed off.

“Who’s the bimbo that walked out on my husband?” she demanded. “What woman does that? Walks out on someone who’s dying?”

Grant sized her up. He’d interviewed hundreds of next-of-kin and he’d seen all sorts of reactions to death. But this was a shade different. Why did the wife assume Erickson was dying while his mistress was still in the room?

“We don’t know for certain that anyone was here with your husband,” he said, though he didn’t believe that for a minute. “Or, if someone was here, whether Mr. Erickson was dead before or after she left.”

She stared at him. “You can’t be that dense-I found him. I saw the bedroom. Someone was with George last night and it wasn’t me!”

“Did you know your husband was having an affair?”

She laughed, a tinge of bitterness lacing her humor. “He wasn’t having an affair. He was fucking around. Of course I knew it. He wouldn’t screw around behind my back.”

Swingers. Married couples who had an agreement they’d sleep around. Grant knew something about that. He’d never seen it end well-it sure as hell hadn’t worked for him and his failed marriage-but it was accepted practice these days among the movers and shakers in L.A., and had spread to suburbia. “Do you know who he was with last night?”

“No.”

“And I’m guessing you weren’t out with friends?”

She glared at him. “I’m not going to be judged by a cop on how George and I lived. We respected each other, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say about some marriages!”

“If there’s anything suspicious about your husband’s death,” Grant said, “I’ll need to verify your alibi.”

It may have hit Pamela Erickson at that moment that maybe her husband hadn’t died of natural causes. Her lower lip trembled and she swallowed, looking from Grant to Jeff and back to Grant. “Someone hurt him on purpose? B-But, George?”

“Was he well liked?”