not looking very well,” she said.
And he turned to give her a rueful smile. “No. I will not be here long, you see. But I’m glad that you made it, so glad that you’re here. It’s happening again. And you must do something. You must stop it. No one will see, because it’s much the same. Do you understand?”
“Not a word,” she assured him.
He looked across the room and seemed concerned; he stood suddenly and hurried toward the door. Vickie raced after him.
She didn’t see him at first. He was on the ground, slumped against the building. She tried to reach him, but there was already a man at his side, attempting to help him. She noted an address then, Lombard Street.
As she stood there while the one man tried to help, people continued to hurry along the street. Hawkers shouted out their wares—and their candidates. Drinks were promised for votes; there was laughter, there was a rush of music, someone playing a fiddle...
She tried to reach the fallen man, thankful that at least someone was helping him.
Across the bit of distance between them, he opened his eyes and looked at her.
“I have to go now,” he said.
“No...!”
“But I must. And you...”
“Yes?”
“You must pay attention.” He laughed softly. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
A loud cawing sound seemed to rip through the air.
He looked at her sadly and said, “Quoth the raven—nevermore!”
“There’s been an incident, a very bizarre incident,” Jackson Crow said.
His voice over the phone as he spoke to Griffin Pryce was steady—as always. Jackson had pretty much seen it all. As field director of a special unit of the FBI—unofficially known as the Krewe of Hunters—Jackson had just about seen it all, although he’d be the first to say they’d probably never “see it all.”
The “bizarre” was usually the reason the Krewe got called in.
“What’s the incident?”
“You’ve heard of Franklin Verne?” Jackson asked.
“The writer? Yes, of course. Kind of impossible not to have heard of him—he likes to do his own commercials. He’s known for action books with shades of horror, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
Griffin frowned, thinking about the night before. He’d actually heard mention of Franklin Verne’s name—he and Vickie had stopped for a damned good dinner and some excellent wine at a spectacular new Baltimore restaurant. Their waiter had mentioned that Franklin Verne was in the city and they were hoping to see him in the restaurant for a meal—and, of course, an endorsement!
“Griffin?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking that you’re about to tell me how he died, and since you’re on the phone with me, and you know we’re in Baltimore, I’m assuming he died in Baltimore?”
“Yes, last night. He was found in the wine cellar of the Black Bird, a new restaurant—”
“What?” Griffin said. He knew the restaurant—pretty well! It was, in fact, the posh place where he’d taken Vickie last night.
“The Black Bird,” Jackson repeated.
“We ate there last night.”
“Oh. Well, that’s convenient. You know right where it is.”
“I do. Fell’s Point, not far from where we’re staying. You know Vickie—we found a really great old historic hotel. Blackhawk Harbor House. In fact, I’m standing outside. It’s so wonderfully old and historic, though I can’t seem to make a cell phone call from inside.” He glanced up at the building. It had been built as a hotel in the 1850s—built with concrete and care. It would probably withstand any storm. The hotel was handsome and elegant, and Griffin enjoyed it—but he still found it annoying when he couldn’t get a decent signal on his phone from his room.
“They sure weren’t expecting Franklin Verne at the restaurant,” he told Jackson. “They talked about the fact that they hoped that he would come in. His patronage would be great for business.”
“I imagine. Well, he was there—is there. Sadly, he’s dead. At the moment, they’re calling it an accidental death.”
“Okay. So. How did he die? Was it an accident, possibly...?”
“A combination of over-the-counter drugs and alcohol,” Jackson said. “That’s a preliminary—the ME, of course, will deny he suggested any true cause as of yet. You know how that works—they won’t know for certain what caused it until all the tests are back. I take it you haven’t seen any news yet?”
“Jackson, it is 7:30 a.m. This was our last weekend before settling in—me back from a long stint in Boston, and Vickie moving to a new state and an entirely new life. Hey, it was supposed to be free time. We were out late last night. Vickie is still sleeping.”
“Okay, you haven’t seen the news. Anyway, Franklin Verne used to be quite the wild man, drinking, getting rowdy with friends, playing the type of hard-core character that appears in most of his books. His wife, Monica, put a stop to it a few years back—when the doctors told her he wouldn’t make it to old age. But his body was found in a wine cellar. According to Monica, Franklin had been clean for two full years.”
“You know all this because...?” Griffin asked him.
“Because Franklin Verne gave generously to a lot of the same causes our own Adam Harrison holds so dear,” Jackson said.
Adam Harrison was their senior advisor—he was, in fact, the creator of the Krewe, and a man with a phenomenal ability to put the right people together with the right situation.
“Naturally,” Jackson continued, “he’s quite good friends with Monica, so... Well, there you have it. He’ll wrangle us an invitation into the investigation eventually—you know him and his abilities with local police.” Jackson hesitated a minute. “Even if we wind up having to tell Monica she lost her husband because he slipped back into addiction, she’ll have the truth of the situation. For the moment, I need you to go make nice with Detective Carl Morris.”
“Carl Morris, sure,” Griffin said.
So much for the incredible plans he’d had with Vickie for the day!
“Addiction, a friend, temptation... It could have been an accident,” Griffin said.
