Ritual in Death Read Free

her weapon in her hand, her eyes scanning “Does every suite have the private elevator like Suite 600?”
    “They do, yes. Those elevators in the center of the floor are also private, in that you need a key card or clearance for the trip up.”
    Emergency exits, all four corners, she noted, via stairs. But Jackson Pike hadn’t used them. His trail led straight to the carved double doors of Suite 606.
    Eve saw the faint smear of blood over the ornate zero.
    Suite 666, she thought. Wasn’t that just perfect?
    She signaled for Roarke to stay back, then tried the knob.
    “Locked. I don’t have my master.”
    “Lucky for you, you have me.” He drew a slim tool out of his pocket.
    “Handy, but have you ever considered how a cop’s supposed to explain—should it come up—why her husband’s got burglary tools in his pockets?”
    “For bloody emergencies?” He straightened. “Lock’s off.”
    “I don’t suppose you’re carrying.”
    He flicked her a look, his eyes very cool. “While I didn’t think it necessary to bring a weapon to a cocktail party, I got this from security.” He drew out a stunner. “Civilian issue. Perfectly legal.”
    “Hmm. On three.”
    It wasn’t their first time through a door. She went low, he went high into a large living area lit by hundreds of candles. In the flickering light blood gleamed as it pooled over the black pentagram drawn on the polished marble floor.
    A body floated on that pool, the arms and legs spread to form an X at the center of the sign.
    Gone, Eve thought, bled out. Throat slashed, multiple body wounds. She shook her head at Roarke, gestured to the left.
    She moved right, in a suite the mirror image of Maxia’s. Sweeping her weapon, she cleared a dining room, a short hallway, a kitchen, a powder room, making the circle that brought her back to Roarke.
    “Bed and bath clear, this level,” he told her. “Both were used. There’s considerable blood—smears not spatters. Hers, I expect.”
    He wasn’t a cop, she mused, but he could think like one. “We’re going up.” She did a chin point toward the elevator and tried to ignore the stench—not just death, but a kind of burning on the air. “Can you block that? Shut it down?”
    Saying nothing, he walked to it, took out his tool again. While he worked, Eve circled the pentagram to clear the terrace.
    “Done.”
    “What’s the layout on the second floor?”
    “Bed and bath, small sitting room to the left. Master suite—living area, powder room, dressing area, bed and bath to the right.”
    “I’ll take the right.”
    The place felt empty, she thought. It felt dead. The metallic reek of the blood, the sickly sweet overlay of death mixed with candle wax smeared the air. And something more, that burning and a kind of . . . pulsing, she thought. Spent energy, the shadows of it still beating.
    Together they cleared the second level, then the third.
    She found evidence of sexual frenzy, of food, of drink, of murder. “The sweepers are going to be hours in here, if not days.”
    Roarke studied the glasses, plates, half-eaten food. “What kind of people do murder, and leave so much of themselves behind?”
    “The kind who think they’re beyond or above the law. The worst kind. I need to seal this place off, all three levels, until crime scene gets here. Who was registered in this suite?”
    “The Asant Group.” On the steps, he stared down at the body posed on the pentagram. “Jumble the letters, and you’ve got—”
    “Satan. God, I hate this kind of shit. People want to worship the devil, be my guest. Hell, they can have horns surgically implanted on their forehead. But then they’ve just got to slice somebody up for their human sacrifice and drag me into it.”
    “Damned cheeky of them.”
    “I’ll say.”
    “Naked Jack didn’t do this on his own.”
    “Nope. Let’s go see if his memory’s a little clearer.”
    The uniforms had taken over. Eve directed them to take names and contact info