The Killing Dance - Laurell K. Hamilton [92]
“Could he have done this?” Dolph asked.
“I only met the man once, Dolph.”
“Give me an opinion, Anita.”
I thought about the feel of Dominic in my head. His offer to teach me necromancy. The big thing was that killing Robert and leaving the body for us to find was stupid. Dominic Dumare didn’t strike me as a stupid man.
“He could have. He’s a vampire’s human servant, so it gives you two of your mixed group.”
“Did the vampire know Robert?”
I shook my head. “Not to my knowledge.”
“You got a number where we can reach Mr. Dumare?”
“I can call our night secretary and get it for you.”
“Great.” Dolph stared down at his notes. “Is Dumare your best suspect?”
I thought about that. “Yeah, I guess he is.”
“You got any proof?”
“He’s a necromancer, and this was done by someone with knowledge of necromancy.” I shrugged.
“The same reason we suspected you,” Dolph said. He almost smiled when he said it.
“Point taken,” I said. “Prejudiced little me.”
Dolph closed his notebook. “I’ll take you down for your statement then.”
“Fine. Now can I call Catherine?”
“There’s a phone in the kitchen.”
Zerbrowski opened the door. “The wife’s here, and she’s pretty hysterical.”
“Who’s with her?” Dolph asked.
“Reynolds.”
Through the open door, I heard a woman talking, just below the level of screaming. “Robert, my husband, dead? He can’t be dead. He can’t be dead. I have to see him. You don’t understand what he is. He isn’t dead.” The voice was coming closer.
“She’s doesn’t need to see this, Anita.”
I nodded. I walked out the door and closed it tightly behind me. I couldn’t see Monica yet, but I could hear her. Her voice rising, growing thinner with panic. “You don’t understand. He isn’t really dead.”
I was betting that Monica wouldn’t take my word for Robert being well and truly dead. I guess if it was Jean-Claude lying in there, I wouldn’t, either. I’d have to see for myself. I took a deep breath and walked forward to meet the grieving widow. Damn. This night just kept getting better and better.
20
* * *
THE hospital room was soft mauve with paintings of flowers on the wall. The bed had a mauve bedspread and pink sheets. Monica lay in the bed hooked up to an IV and two different kinds of monitors. A strap across her belly monitored the contractions. Gratefully, the lines had gone flat. The other monitor was the baby’s heartbeat. The sound had scared me at first; too fast, like the heart of a small bird. When the nurses assured me the heartbeat was normal, I relaxed. After nearly two hours, the frantic beat had become a comforting sound like white noise.
Monica’s auburn hair was plastered in wet tendrils to her forehead. Her careful makeup was smeared across her face. They had been forced to give her a sedative, though it wasn’t great for the baby. She had fallen into a light, almost feverish sleep. Her head turned, eyes flicking behind her lids, mouth working, caught in some dream, a very bad dream probably, after the night she’d had. It was almost two o’clock, and I still had to go to the station and make my statement to Detective Greeley. Catherine was on her way to take my place at Monica’s bedside. I’d be glad to see her.
I had little crescent nail marks on my right hand. Monica had clung to it like it was all that was holding her together. At the worst of the contractions, when it looked like Monica would lose her baby as well as her husband, her long, painted nails had bitten into me, and only when blood trickled down my hand in fine crimson lines did a nurse say something. When Monica calmed down, they had insisted on messing with the wounds. They’d used the cartoon bandages they kept for the babies, so that my hand was covered in Mickey Mouse and Goofy.
There was a television on a shelf on the wall, but I hadn’t turned it on. The only sounds were the whirr of air circulating through the vents and the baby’s heartbeat.
A uniformed cop stood outside the door. If Robert had been killed by a hate group, then Monica and the baby were possible targets. If he’d been killed for personal reasons,