Promises in Death Read Free Page B

on the sidewalk easier than finding an unoccupied cab.
    God bless New York, she thought, until it ate you alive.
    Morris lived in Soho. She should’ve guessed it. There was something bohemian, exotic, artistic about the man who’d chosen to doctor the dead.
    He had a Grim Reaper tattoo, she remembered, which she’d seen inadvertently when she’d called him in the middle of the night, and he hadn’t bothered to block video. Though he’d been in bed and barely covered by the sheet.
    The man was hot. No wonder Coltraine had . . .
    Oh God. Oh God.
    She stalled, couldn’t help herself, by searching out a parking spot along the street. Artists tented their wares or grabbed them from the little stalls to dash with them out of the rain. Those too iced to settle for trendy shops lived here, among the lofts and varied restaurants, the in-groove clubs and nightspots.
    She found a spot, three blocks from Morris’s place. And she walked through the rain while others dashed and darted around her, seeking shelter from the wet.
    She climbed to the main door, started to push his buzzer. Couldn’t. He’d see her through his screen, and it would give him too much time to think, or he’d ask, and she couldn’t answer. Instead, she violated his privacy and used her master to gain entrance to the tiny lobby shared by the other lofts.
    She took the stairs, gained herself a little more time, and circled around to his door. What would she say?
    It couldn’t be the standard here. It couldn’t be the standby: I regret to inform you . . . I’m sorry for your loss. Not here, not with Morris. Praying it would come to her, it would somehow be the right way, she pressed the bell.
    In the time that passed, her skin chilled. Her heart thudded. She heard the locks give, watched his lock light go from red to green.
    He opened the door and smiled at her.
    His hair was loose. She’d never seen it loose, raining down his back rather than braided. He wore black pants, a black tee. His exotic almond eyes looked a little sleepy. She heard the sleep in his voice when he greeted her.
    “Dallas. The unexpected on my doorstep on a rainy morning.”
    She saw curiosity. No alarm, no worry. She knew her face showed him nothing. Not yet. Another second or two, she thought. Just another few seconds before she broke his heart.
    “Can I come in?”

2
    ART RADIATED FROM THE WALLS IN AN ECLECtic mix from bold, bright colors and odd shapes to elegant pencil drawings of naked women in various stages of undress.
    It was an open space with the kitchen in black and silver flowing into a dining area in strong red, which curved into the living area. Open silver stairs ribboned their way up to the second floor, again open and ringed by a shining rail.
    There was a sense of movement in the space, maybe from the energy of all the color, she thought, or all the pieces of him and his interests displayed there.
    Bowls, bottles, stones, photographs jockeyed for position with books—no wonder Morris and Roarke hit it off—and musical instruments, sculptures of dragons, a small brass gong, and what she thought was an actual human skull.
    Watching her face, Morris gestured to the long, armless couch. “Why don’t you sit down? I can offer you passable coffee. Nothing as prime as you’re used to.”
    “No, that’s okay.” But she thought, yes, let’s sit, have coffee. Let’s just not do this thing.
    He took her hand. “Who’s dead? It’s one of us.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Peabody—”
    “No. Peabody’s . . . no.” Only making it worse, she thought. “Morris, it’s Detective Coltraine.”
    She could see by his face he didn’t understand, he didn’t connect his question with her answer. She did the only thing she could do. She plunged the knife in his heart.
    “She was killed last night. She’s dead, Morris. She’s gone. I’m sorry.”
    He released her hand, stepped back from her. As if, she knew, breaking contact would stop it. Just stop it