The Death Dealer

Brook set a hand on his shoulder. “Larry, we’ll be all right.”



Larry frowned. “Of course we’ll be all right. That’s not why I’m pissed.”



“Then…?” Don asked.



“I should have fucking been there!” Larry said. “Can you believe it? I’m a Raven, and this is the story of the year, and I should be covering it.”



Eileen Brideswell and the rest of the board members walked into the bar at that point, staring at the television as they walked over to join the others, who pulled over an empty table to make room for them.



Over in a corner, Paddy pulled out his phone. He hated feeling like a tattletale, but he couldn’t help worrying about Eileen. In his opinion, Genevieve needed to know where her mother was.



In his robe, in his own room, Albee Bennet watched the evening news and lifted his teacup to the television.



“Quoth the raven,” he said sadly. “Ah, Thorne, you would have loved the irony.”



Then he set his teacup down and looked around.



The night had somehow become ominous.



He rose and locked the door to his room, even though the house had an excellent security system, and these days it was always set.



He wasn’t about to end up like Thorne. He wouldn’t trust anyone. He would be safe.



Even so, when he went to bed, early, he couldn’t help feeling afraid.



She had hired Joe Connolly because he was good at his job, Genevieve told herself, even if she had to admit that other reasons might have lurked in the back corners of her mind. He was good, and she was living proof of that.



Adam owned a place up by Central Park, so he had headed up there a while ago and was making arrangements for his employees to join him. Brent Blackhawk, who was coming with his wife, was a sheriff in Virginia. A lawman. That should mollify Joe, once he found out what she had done, she thought.



With Adam out of the house, she tried to think as Joe would think, to reason. The possibility remained that the killer had nothing to do with the New York Poe Society and was using the connection as a smoke screen. She started with simple deduction. Had the murders been carried out in a manner that definitely spoke of someone emulating Poe’s writings?



No.



Poisoned wine didn’t connect directly with any of Poe’s stories, nor was it terribly unique.



Sam Latham had been hurt in a car accident, and there was certainly no vehicular homicide in any of Poe’s stories. Nor had a note been found at the scene.



Lori’s murder was the only one that really lined up with Poe’s work, and even then, the parallels weren’t definitive.



Was the killer trying to slay every member of the society, or at least the board? There was no way to know, but certainly the killer wasn’t limiting himself to that group, though Lori Star had connected herself to the case.



Okay, she told herself. Time to try eliminating some possibilities.



She made a list of the members of the board, then looked down it, considering each one as a suspect. She eliminated three names right off the bat: Thorne, because he was dead; Sam, because he was in the hospital; her mother…



Because she was her mother.



That left Jared Bigelow and Mary Vincenzo, whom she suspected were sleeping together. Both stood to gain from Thorne Bigelow’s death—Jared directly, and Mary through her relationship with Jared. Lila Hawkins, unlikely, but not impossible. Lou Sayles? God, she hoped not. The woman had worked with the city’s children for years, and the thought of a murderer having that kind of access…She shuddered. Barbara Hirshorn, such a timid little bird, but you never knew…Still waters and all that.



It took ingenuity, not strength, to administer poison, but what had been done to Lori Star had taken strength.



Four men remained as possible suspects. Five, if she counted Albee Bennet, and she knew Joe would. After all, he had admitted being in the house when Thorne was murdered. So she added him to the list that still included Larry Levine, Brook Avery, Don Tracy and Nat Halloway.



She was anxious to talk to Joe now, but she was afraid, as well, given that she had called in the ghostbusters. But something was disturbing him deeply, and she couldn’t help feeling that Adam Harrison was the man who could help.



Her phone rang, and she picked it up absently.



She could hear noise and Irish music in the background, and frowned. Someone was calling her from O’Malley’s, she thought.



“Hello?”



“Is that you, lovely Genevieve?”



The slight Irish lilt was a giveaway.



“Paddy? What’s up? Why are you calling me?”



“I just thought you should know. Your mum is here. And all her bird society people.”



“You mean, the Poe Society? Thanks for letting me know, Paddy,” she said, then hung up a moment later and leapt to her feet. What was Eileen doing going out without protection, and with that group, of all people? Disturbed, she grabbed her purse and headed out.



Joe had been shoved out of the way when the doctors and nurses rushed in, but he was quick to warn them that they needed to find out what had been in Sam’s IV.



He’d actually been afraid he was going to be tackled by the security guard, but Dorothy had jumped to his defense, and then, thank God, a nurse had shouted that she didn’t like the look of the IV fluid, and taken the bag of fluids away for testing. One of the doctors suspected a morphine overdose, but final word would have to wait for the lab results.



Once the medical personnel got Sam stabilized—though he was still unconscious—inserted a fresh IV and left, Dorothy broke into sobs, and Joe tried to calm her.



“I hired security and everything,” she said. “Why does someone want to kill Sam?”



Why indeed? Joe asked himself.



Two police officers arrived a few minutes later, men Joe didn’t know. They started by interviewing the security guard, then Dorothy, then him, followed by all the medical personnel on duty on the floor, none of whom had been in to change Sam’s IV.



The shift change had been at seven, about fifteen minutes before Joe had arrived, and Dorothy’s best recollection was that someone had come in right in the middle of it to adjust the IV. It had been the perfect opportunity for someone to slip into hospital scrubs during the busy changeover, then casually walk in and inject something that shouldn’t have been there into Sam’s IV.



Dorothy wasn’t certain she could identify whoever who had come in. She had dozed off and still been half asleep when the last person came in to adjust the IV.



The guard in the hallway swore up and down that no one who wasn’t in proper hospital attire had gotten past him.



It seemed forever before things began to calm down. By then, Raif and Tom Dooley, looking seriously worse for wear, had arrived.



Another round of questioning began.



The police ordered official round-the-clock surveillance. Other than Dorothy and anyone she approved, no one wearing a surgical mask or without hospital ID was to be allowed into Sam’s room, which was immediately changed. Records were altered so he was no longer listed under his own name.



A team of crime-scene investigators came in to examine the room, although everyone thought that it was a losing proposition. The would-be killer had been wearing scrubs, including latex gloves, so fingerprints were unlikely.



Around ten, Sam woke up, none the worse for an ordeal he’d been totally unaware of, but he could add nothing to what the police had already found out, since he’d slept through the IV change. After he heard the full story, he was simply grateful to be alive.



Genevieve was disturbed that her mother hadn’t told her about her plans to go out with the Ravens, and she felt a keen sense of unease as she headed down to the garage to get her car. The garage wasn’t ablaze with light, but it wasn’t dark, either, though there were shadows. Still, it could only be accessed—whether from the street or from the building itself—with a resident’s keycard.



Even so, the door had barely closed behind her before she felt a strange sensation sweep over her. It wasn’t exactly fear. Not at first. It was more the sense that someone else was out there.



Then she felt the chill.



It was as if the shadows themselves were moving, as if darkness itself was snaking around her.



Touching her.



She started walking more quickly, looking around. She couldn’t see anyone.



She almost raced back to the door to the building, actually pictured herself fumbling with the key, desperate to get inside as quickly as she could.



At that point her car was closer, so she started to run for it. And even though she had just seen that there was no one around, she felt that someone was there. Someone who was trying to stop her.



She reached her car, but her fingers were trembling, and she had trouble opening the door.



Darkness, like a living thing, seemed to be rising behind her. She could almost feel the whisper of its breath.



She got the door open at last and jumped inside, then slammed and locked the door behind her. She swallowed hard as paranoia seized her again, and turned around. She actually expected to see someone sitting in the backseat, someone who’d hidden there, waiting, and who was now ready to pounce….



But no one was there. Of course.



Then…



She could have sworn she heard a whisper.



Help me!



She swallowed a scream and swung her head around, from side to side, in panic. She was ready to abandon the car and even opened the door.



Then she saw someone walking through the garage and plainly heard a cheerful whistle. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins.



“Evening, Miss O’Brien.”



She sagged against the back of the seat and stared blankly at Tim Rindle, one of the night watchmen. Tim was a handsome twenty-something, clean cut, always cheerful. He had just gotten out of the service and was working nights to put himself through college.



“Are you all right?” he asked, as he got closer and saw her face, which she knew must have been as pale as a ghost.



She swallowed hard. Straightened. Felt like a complete fool.



“I’m fine, Tim.”



“Are you sure? Do you need me to help you up to your apartment or anything?” he asked anxiously.