Page 84 of Nocturne

The crime scene photos are stark black and white, but I don’t need color to recognize the horror they depict. A woman, mid-twenties, found behind a stand of trees off one of the hiking trails. Deep lacerations on both wrists, throat torn open. Body almost completely drained of blood.

The coroner’s preliminary report suggests suicide followed by animal activity—coyotes, perhaps, drawn by the blood. But I know better. The cuts on her wrists don’t seem to be self-inflicted. And what animal leaves a body drained but otherwise unmolested?

As I stare at the photos, something shifts in my mind—a door unlocking, revealing fragments of memory I’d lost. I see the woman’s face, alive and wary as I approach her in the darkness. Feel her pulse beneath my fingers as she struggles. Taste the copper-rich flood of her blood as my teeth—my teeth—tear through the delicate skin of her throat.

My stomach lurches. I have to grab the edge of the desk to steady myself, knuckles white with strain.

I killed her. During my blackout, I hunted and killed a woman like some kind of predator. Which is exactly what I am, according to Abe and Lena. A predator designed by evolution or God or the devil to feed on human beings.

“Find something interesting?”

Coleman’s voice jars me back to the present. He sets a chipped mug of coffee in front of me, studying my face with careful attention.

“Just browsing,” I manage, closing the folder. “Anything new on the Short case?”

He sighs, lowering himself into his chair. “Nothing solid. Still interviewing suspects, but none seem to stick. All the confessions we’ve had so far are from a bunch of loons who think going to jail is worth the time in the spotlight. Brass is putting pressure on us to wrap it up, sweep it under the rug.”

“What’s the rush? It’s the biggest case this department has seen in years.”

“Exactly.” Coleman sips his coffee, grimacing at the bitterness that I can smell from here. “Too much attention. And there are…connections we’re not supposed to be looking into.”

“Cohen,” I say, not a question.

“Among others.” He sets his mug down, leaning forward. “Listen, Vic. I’ve known you a long time. Always respected your work, your integrity. So I’m going to be straight with you—you need to back off this case.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you poking around places you shouldn’t be. Maybe poking certain people you shouldn’t be.” His eyes narrow. “I’m talking about Marco Russo’s sudden disappearance.”

My pulse would be spiking if I were still entirely human. Instead, I feel an unnatural calm settle over me, instincts I don’t yet understand taking control.

“Marco’s missing?” I keep my voice neutral, my face unreadable.

“Cut the act, Vic. I heard on the grapevine you were seen leaving his house the night he vanished. And then there’s the incident at the Hotel Culver City yesterday. Two of Cohen’s men dead, one with a bullet between the eyes, the other in the heart. Witnesses describe a man matching your description.”

“Witnesses can be mistaken,” I say carefully.

“Sure they can.” Coleman doesn’t blink. “Just like the acid that was thrown at Lena Reid’s face. I’m sure that wasn’t her either. They must have seen some other ruby-haired jazz singer.”

I don’t say a word. Coleman watches me, disappointment evident in the lines of his face. We’ve worked together for years, built a relationship on mutual respect. Now I’m sitting across from him, lying by omission, harboring secrets he can’t begin to comprehend.

“You’re in trouble, my friend,” he says finally. “Deep trouble. Mickey is looking for you, and he’s not the kind who forgives and forgets.”

“Mickey Mouse?”

His stare could cut glass. “Whatever you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in, it’s not worth your life.”

“I appreciate the concern,” I tell him, and I mean it. “But I can handle myself.”

He snorts. “Like you handled Marco Russo?”

“I didn’t come here to discuss any of Cohen’s men,” I say, changing tack. “I’m still investigating Elizabeth Short’s murder, regardless of who wants the case closed. The paid-for bureaucrats didn’t hire me. Virginia West did.”

“Then I’d say you’re more of a fool than I took you for. A stubborn fool.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” I say, standing up and putting on my hat. “I should go.”

Coleman rises too, extending his hand. I take it automatically, giving it a squeeze. Enough that Coleman winces and I have to drop it quickly.

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