Page 3 of Secrets in the Dark
“I think even the most peace-loving countries in the world want a man like him removed with no possibility of parole or escape,” Della provided flatly.
Edmund didn’t respond, but watching him, she knew that he might agree.
“I’m always conflicted,” she told him. “There is no undoing an execution if it’s later proven that someone was innocent. But sometimes, when evidence is overwhelming, and a killer does get out and kill and kill again... I guess we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t wish it could be stopped.”
“Of course,” Edmund murmured.
She turned and glanced at Mason. He was serious, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. She was glad that he was her partner for so many reasons. She had been hesitant about him at first—before they’d met on a case, he’d been working solo for a year because his partner had been killed in the line of duty. That did something to any law enforcement officer. But while he hated to kill, he was a crack shot and an excellent judge of when deadly force was necessary and when a suspect could be talked down. He had an extreme sense of justice. It also helped that he stood an intimidating six foot five, was incredibly fit and blessed with ink-dark hair and eyes so dark a blue they could appear almost black in shadows.
And it helped, of course, that in the Krewe, it was all right to fall for one’s partner. Krewe members were simply different—some said special, others said cursed—and for their work, it was important that they shared that difference.
They were simply a minute portion of the population.
Like many others—in law enforcement in general—she and Mason had also made the most of all their off-time. There was always a fine line that had to be observed. They cared. They cared deeply for the victims, for ending violence that was humanly possible to end. They also knew that they had to stop and smell the proverbial flowers when they could—they needed that space to stay sane and as prepared as humanly possible as well.
It was natural that she couldn’t help but wish it was a vacation.
But it wasn’t. And since it wasn’t, she was grateful that she was with Mason—and Detective Edmund Taylor. They were becoming their own “special” unit, unofficially termed Blackbird, while they were officially the Euro Special Assistance Team.
Edmund Taylor was, in Della’s mind, a top-notch detective. They’d met in Norway, on their hunt for the “vampire” who had struck in England and France before turning to the Scandinavian nation. While the FBI had long had liaison offices across the world, they were unique in their ability to join in on an investigation—when asked, of course. Interpol had provided them with François Bisset, their go-between for all countries, and they worked with the detectives involved in each case. While this was a new case, it was also an old one.
Because no one knew what magic or hypnotism the confessed killer Stephan Dante had used on others or just how many other killers he had created and/or trained.
Edmund knew the case. He was somewhere in his early forties, but he had worked long and hard with Scotland Yard to earn his position with homicide and in this case, what they were calling “special services.” He was solid and serious most of the time, just an inch or so shorter than Mason and a man who evidently worked his frustrations out at the gym and could still smile and find humor upon occasion, letting his guard down when he was among friends. He was a handsome man with a headful of light brown hair and eyes so soft a brown they might have been almost amber.
“Yeah, us!” he said lightly then. “We caught the killer—who let us know that we didn’t catch all the killers we need to catch. But...we’re on it. We’ve been on it. Night is coming, so...did you two want to get to the hotel and get some sleep, or—”
Laughing, Della interrupted him. “No, we’re ready to hit the ground running. That’s the plan with us having our own pilot and private plane. Of course, poor Gene, our pilot, needs to be ready to fly at the drop of a hat, but he gets lots of downtime, too. And he wants to see the sights, so...anyway, no! We had plenty of sleep on the plane. Do you have any ideas? I’d assumed we’d go over files—”
“Which we will, tomorrow. Two of our victims—supposedly taken by thevampirekiller—were last seen in the Brixton nightlife area. I thought you might need a pint or two as well after your long journey.”
Della glanced back at Mason. “We just flew in from Bucharest, so hardly a long journey. Since Dante had insinuated that we might find clues at Castle Bran, we went to the castle, and, called you—as you know—so...”
“Yes, indeed. We need to find possible suspects—and then, as you suggested, discover if any of them lost a wife or loved one to a suicide—as suggested by our quickie trip to Transylvania and discoveries regarding Vlad Dracul. A suicide they just might blame on themselves. But we’re struggling to find suspects, going back over all the paperwork... Anyway, I’m not going to feel sorry for you for a long journey since...” He paused to grin. “Since you did get something of a holiday in there, and the castle is beautiful and the Romanian countryside even more so. But we can have a relaxing drink and dinner—and perhaps spot something or at the very least, chat with a bartender or two.”
“I think we can function well with a pint,” Mason said. “Has anything happened since we made our way here?”
Edmund shook his head. “But I was there when Dante was taken down in the Louisiana bayou—I heard what he said. The victims killedalreadyhave families, and—”
“Don’t worry. We understand. The victims deserve justice, and truth in that justice. And we need to make sure there aren’t more victims,” Mason said quietly.
“Exactly,” Edmund murmured. “And if there is someone out there—something we all believe—we have to stop him before he starts on his ownreignof whatever kind of terror he’s planning.”
“Yes,” Della said quietly. “So, a pint it is!”
They’d headed out from Bucharest in the midafternoon. But even though the flight was short, time at the airports and driving was turning day into night. A fog was sweeping in, as one so commonly did in England, and the sun was dying in the western sky.
It was beautiful and eerie.
But not so eerie in the Brixton section. Restaurants and pubs blazed with lights. Visitors and locals were hurrying about. The night was temperate and pleasant and many were dining at outside cafés or sipping drinks at sidewalk tables.
Edmund luckily managed to park right on the street. They all exited the car and for a minute, stood looking around at the many lights.
Couples and groups walked about, laughing, teasing, chatting, some arm in arm, all out for a good time, for camaraderie with old friends and new.
“Hopefully, the news about Stephan Dante has kept women from casually hooking up in bars.”
“Men and women have been casually hooking up in pubs since forever,” Edmund said. “I’ve wanted to do a press conference, but the powers that be... Well, no one wants a panic. And at this time, all we have is what Dante is saying and we have no proof and... Well, no press conference. But thankfully, they still think I should be part of this special force and that we should continue to investigate.”
