Urban Sensation Read online

  Evan intended to find the truth—and the killer—one way or another

  Rowen was next on the madman’s kill list and Evan understood what the message he’d left behind meant. He didn’t like bringing Rowen along, but he couldn’t, especially now, risk letting her out of his sight for even one second.

  Six people were dead and the one and only clue any of the murders yielded was the tattoo found on the victims.

  The rain had started to fall once more. A storm had descended, bringing with it wrathful and ominous thunder along with the accompanying jagged bolts of vengeful lightning. Dark amassed in the sky, providing relief from the sun for him, but giving Boston the dismal look of a city grieving for its loss. The city looked murky, depressed…and eerily crying out for justice.

  A city under siege by unknown sinister forces.

  URBAN SENSATION

  DEBRA WEBB

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Debra Webb was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and with the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing full-time and in 1998 her dream of writing for Harlequin came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at P.O. Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345 or visit her Web site at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

  Books by Debra Webb

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  583—SAFE BY HIS SIDE*

  597—THE BODYGUARD’S BABY*

  610—PROTECTIVE CUSTODY*

  634—SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT: BABY

  646—SOLITARY SOLDIER*

  659—PERSONAL PROTECTOR*

  671—PHYSICAL EVIDENCE*

  683—CONTRACT BRIDE*

  693—UNDERCOVER WIFE**

  697—HER HIDDEN TRUTH**

  701—GUARDIAN OF THE NIGHT**

  718—HER SECRET ALIBI*

  732—KEEPING BABY SAFE*

  747—CRIES IN THE NIGHT*

  768—AGENT COWBOY*

  801—SITUATION: OUT OF CONTROL†

  807—FULL EXPOSURE†

  837—JOHN DOE ON HER DOORSTEP††

  843—EXECUTIVE BODYGUARD††

  849—MAN OF HER DREAMS††

  864—URBAN SENSATION

  HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

  864—LONGWALKER’S CHILD

  935—THE MARRIAGE PRESCRIPTION*

  948—THE DOCTOR WORE BOOTS

  995—GUARDING THE HEIRESS*

  SILHOUETTE BOMBSHELL

  22—JUSTICE

  33—SILENT WEAPON

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Rowen O’Connor—Boston homicide detective. Rowen O’Connor has six dead bodies, all drained of their blood, and not a single clue as to a perpetrator—at least not a human one. The last thing she needs in her life right now is the man who broke her heart.

  Evan Hunter—Former FBI agent. Evan Hunter went into seclusion three years ago after an explosion almost killed him. But this dark, brooding man is not the same one Rowen once knew.

  Bernard Cost—Medical Examiner. Dr. Cost hasn’t been able to help Rowen’s case. Maybe he isn’t looking closely enough.

  Bart Koppel—Chief of Homicide. Koppel just wants this case solved but he wants Rowen to keep quiet about the “V” word. He appears more concerned with the politics of the case than with finding the killer.

  Viktor Azariel—Self-proclaimed vampire who lives in a fifteenth-century castle he had moved all the way from England. He is connected to at least two of the victims.

  Merv Gant—Rowen’s partner. She trusts him with her life, but she can’t tell him her secrets.

  Lenny Doherty—Boston homicide detective. Rowen’s team got Doherty by default. He seems reliable enough, if not overly ambitious.

  Jeff Finch—Boston homicide detective. The new guy. Rowen isn’t sure she trusts Finch. He’s an unknown variable.

  Gateway—A shadow operation under the FBI’s umbrella that investigates so-called psychic phenomena. Most of the original members are retired or dead…except for one who is unaccounted for…. He could be anyone, anywhere.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Prologue

  Vibrations shattered through his brain. Pain followed in their path, exploding in the very cells of gray matter, inhibiting his ability to concentrate on anything but the horrendous agony.

  Evan Hunter felt his way through the darkness until he reached the door. The misery writhed inside him…building with each step he took. He prayed for death, even when he knew it would not come. Too easy, he’d decided long ago.

  Whatever his sins, God had apparently concluded that he deserved this ceaseless torture.

  Not even sleep provided relief anymore.

  Only silence…only distance. And the mind-numbing drugs his doctor had prescribed, which he now refused to take.

  Nausea roiled, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as a second onslaught of tremors in the air set off its usual chain reaction of physical suffering. His entire body seized, shuddered with the intensity before he wrested back some semblance of control.

  He jerked open the door and blinked against the invading glare of the night. He grunted at the burn searing his retinas before he squeezed his eyes shut. Where were his shades? He’d forgotten about the full moon. Forgotten about the clear night sky and all its punishingly bright stars.

  “Mr. Hunter?” a voice whispered.

  Evan resisted the instinctive urge to open his eyes again—couldn’t handle any more exposure just now. No need to look. He would have recognized the voice and the scent of his visitor even if he hadn’t gotten that fleeting glimpse of his silhouette in the moonlight before closing his eyes.

  “I…I have your supplies, sir,” the man croaked.

  Evan didn’t speak, just stepped back for Marty Kenzie to scurry inside far enough to leave the two bags of supplies on a table a mere four steps from the door.

  “Payment is there,” Evan told him, his voice low, guttural from the pain, as he groped in his pocket for his protective eyewear. The sound of skin rasping along cotton fabric echoed harshly against his eardrums. His fingers curled around the shades, dragged them from his pocket and slid them onto his face. With that barrier in place, he risked opening his eyes once more.

  His hand shaking with trepidation, young Marty Kenzie picked up the envelope containing the money for the food, as well as payment for services rendered. That same uneasiness incited his heart to pound so hard in his thin chest that Evan worried for the boy’s well-being. When he had shoved the envelope into his pocket, Marty worked up the courage to turn around, to allow his anxious gaze to settle on his employer.

  “Thank you, sir,” he murmured.

  Evan said nothing to that.

  Marty crossed the four steps back to the door as swiftly as he dared, careful to keep his gaze on that single, narrow route of escape. He was afraid of Evan…of who and what he was. But he kept coming back because Evan paid him more than anyone else had or would.

  “Marty.”

  The young man stalled in the doorway. His posture screamed of just how badly he wanted to keep going…to flee for his life. The terror that had been mounting since
he’d stepped up onto the rustic porch made his limbs tremble.

  “Yes, sir?” Marty offered quietly without turning around.

  “Next time, only knock once.”

  Marty nodded, then rushed away, careful not to step too heavily…cautiously avoiding the boards he knew from experience squeaked beneath his underweight frame. He flung himself into the old car he hoped to be able to replace once he finished his masters and started his career in architecture. He remembered in the nick of time not to slam the car door. Sweat had by now risen on his skin, forming a film that heightened the anxiety already radiating through him.

  Evan closed and bolted the door, blocking out the world, before his courier could start the engine of his vehicle or turn on the headlights.

  Impatient to satisfy the questions haunting his every thought, conscious as well as unconscious, he moved to the side table and fished through the bags, his hands rustling loudly against brown paper until he found what he wanted.

  Evan took the Boston Reporter Marty Kenzie had found at one of the large chain bookstores in Richmond and relocated to the chair where he spent most of his unstructured time. Magazines and newspapers lay in organized stacks around his reading area. All delivered by Marty or his predecessor. Here, this deep in the mountains, there was no home delivery of newspapers or even any mail. No telephone. Wouldn’t have been any electricity had Evan not invested a small fortune in the local utilities company for installation of the service. The cost was of no consequence. He had little use for his money now.

  He sat down and clicked on the reading lamp occupying a prominent position on the table near his chair. The lamp was adjustable and equipped with a special nonglare, low-wattage bulb. Its twin resided on a similar table next to his bed. There were no other lights in the house.

  He unfolded the paper, anticipation making his hands tremble the way Marty’s had moments ago, as he read the headlines his dreams had already forecast.

  Vampires In Boston. Third Victim Discovered. Police Baffled.

  Evan read on, his jaw set against the anger brewing deep in his gut. When his eyes found her name in bold black print, fury roared through him, tripping that internal alarm that warned of the misery that would follow. But he didn’t care. She was in danger. He had sensed as much for weeks, had dreamed of her fate more than once.

  Now he had proof that his concerns were not just nightmares brought on by dwelling in the past. The danger was real. It was happening now.

  There was only one way to alter her fate.

  Risk his own.

  Chapter One

  As luck would have it, the abysmal rain had finally stopped. Only about four or five hours too late to save the situation that was likely unsalvageable from the moment another young life had ended in Detective Rowen O’Connor’s jurisdiction.

  The proverbial ethnic cocktail of dozens of nationalities, Boston’s South End sprawled adjacent to and south of Back Bay. Three- and four-story stooped red-brick row houses dotted the short streets running perpendicular to the main thoroughfares. What had once been tired lodging houses in a shabby backwater neighborhood separated by railroad tracks from the more desirable northern half of Boston had slowly been reclaimed and revitalized by cunning developers with visions of grandeur.

  Progress, however well-intentioned and welcome, had not saved the life of Carlotta Simpson.

  The crush of darkness and the urgency of time in combination with the elements had forced Boston PD to set up low-heat floodlights around the body, lighting the gruesome details for all to see. The young woman lay facedown in an awkward death sprawl. She wore the black slacks and tee that sported the logo of the Southie pub where she had waitressed five nights per week during the past eighteen months. The sixty bucks she’d earned in tips on last night’s shift were still in her purse, along with her driver’s license, a Filene’s Basement credit card and various other feminine accessories such as lip gloss, mints and a hairbrush.

  Homicide Detective Rowen O’Connor stared up at the buildings on either side of the alley where the victim’s body lay and considered how sad it was that she’d been so very close to safety and yet so far away. Only yards from the place she’d called home for two years.

  The buildings on this block had yet to be renovated in the latest rebirth efforts. Most were badly in need of too many repairs to list and gave off a sense of aging gloom that would only worsen as dawn approached.

  Not exactly the breeding ground for young aspirations.

  Rowen had already concluded what kind of dreams the victim had clung to when she closed her eyes at night and no longer saw the dilapidated walls surrounding her. No longer dwelled on the blisters her shoes had rubbed on her feet as she worked an extra shift at the pub, which, according to her employer, she did quite often.

  The posters of the glamorous women she admired, all well-known supermodels, and stacks of fashion magazines had offered a big clue as to the secret fantasies Carlotta Simpson had sheltered behind soft brown eyes and long, brunette hair. The perfect white teeth now bared by the scowl of horror frozen on her face, the above-average height and slender size four body she had daydreamed would get her noticed and help her to break into that exciting field someday no longer mattered.

  She was dead.

  A next of kin hadn’t been located as yet. Her neighbors barely knew her. When not working, she attended undergraduate classes at Wellesley College and was rarely at home for much other than to sleep or change clothes. According to her employer, who seemed to know her better than anyone they’d interviewed thus far, the victim had been a good student…a nice girl in every sense of the word.

  Nothing Rowen had learned offered the first clue as to why the woman might have been murdered. She had no known enemies and, from all reports, was not involved in any high-risk activities.

  A woman who’d claimed to be suffering from insomnia, as well as morning sickness related to her pregnancy, had stuck her head out her bathroom window for some fresh air and saw what she perceived to be a body. She’d called 911 and the rest was documented history.

  The boys in blue had assessed the dead woman’s condition, noted the similarity of her unusual injury to those in three previous murders, secured the scene and called in the homicide detective on duty. That detective, in turn, had called Rowen since she was lead investigator on the homicide case with similar victims stacking up like a cord of wood.

  Rowen scanned the windows as she walked along the alley. Some lit, most dark. It was quite early, but the time wouldn’t have mattered. Urban tenants learned from the get-go that when the red and blue lights pulsed in their neighborhood, questions usually followed. So they turned out their lamps and pretended not to notice that something vile had visited their community. But that hadn’t stopped the uniforms from beating on doors. Between those interviews and what Rowen had gleaned from the victim’s employer, she had a pretty good start, considering she’d been on the scene for one hour and forty-five minutes. That small cluster of information was only the beginning for what they needed to get the job done.

  With four cruisers and the medical examiner’s van fanned out as an additional layer of security against intrusion, passage on this Roxbury end of Massachusetts Avenue had been narrowed to one lane. The reporters who’d arrived hadn’t helped. At least two news vans had made it to the scene before Rowen. Soon the first of morning rush hour traffic would funnel into the cool October morning and the blockage would soon escalate into a serious traffic problem. One that would earn Boston PD more bad press in the media, as well as numerous complaints called into the mayor’s office. Bostonians did not like being put out…not even for murder.

  Admittedly, this city was much more suited to walking or bicycling or use of the T, the public transit system. Driving could prove trying, if not downright nerve-racking, considering the downtown streets still followed the path of their forerunners—cattle trails. Traffic was hell and most drivers were impatient, Rowen included.

  But walki
ng at night, especially late at night, was not a good idea in certain areas.

  Carlotta Simpson had learned that lesson the hard way.

  In the victim’s apartment, designated as a part of the secondary crime scene, there were no signs of forced entry and all appeared to be in order. The pub where she worked would also fall under that umbrella. Those two locations were the last places the victim had been seen alive before ending up dead in this depressing alley.

  After a sweep by the crime scene techs, the apartment had been sealed until someone who knew Carlotta could be located. An individual or individuals who had been in her apartment fairly often would more likely notice if anything were missing or out of place. Otherwise, there wasn’t much chance Rowen would glean anything from the victim’s personal belongings other than what she already had. She could hope that some note or phone number found in the apartment or a description of a patron the victim had encountered at her workplace would lead to whoever had killed her, but the chances weren’t that good.

  Police tape hung on either end of the alley, marking the area as the official primary crime scene and serving as a second level of deterrence for curious onlookers, including the press corps gathering force with each passing minute.

  Blasts of white light exploded over and over from a camera’s flash, disrupting the darkness that reigned over the alleyway beyond the well-lit vicinity where the body remained waiting for the next leg of its final journey. The vivid slashes of light reminded Rowen of the lightning the storm had displayed earlier that evening when she’d still been at home in bed and trying to sleep. She watched for a moment as the techs worked quickly to process and document every aspect of the scene before turning it over to the medical examiner.