DOMINION Bentley Little (accelerated reader books .TXT) 📖

was it exactly. He’d been a cop for a long time, had been involved with crimes big and small, but the crimes had always been self-contained. A crime was committed by a criminal or criminals, the case was solved, the perps put away, end of story. But this was different. The drug problem, he supposed, would be the closest analogy to this, but though drugs were related to myriad crimes, the crimes were all separate. Related, perhaps, to a root cause, but individual. They weren’t… like this.

This was spooky.

He thought of Hammond and his wacky theories.

Maybe the detective hadn’t been so far off base after all.

Filbert tore off the printed sheet and handed it to Horton.

“Print off a couple more of those,” Horton said. “And give ‘em to the chief.”

Filbert nodded.

“And thanks.” Horton opened the lab door and walked into the hallway.

The station was in chaos.

He stood there, stunned, as men ran past him in both directions down the corridor. Those policemen who were not already armed and in riot gear were in the process of becoming so. Several men were shouting at once, and something unintelligible was being broadcast over the RA.

“What is it?” Horton demanded, grabbing a rookie by the arm.

“A riot over on State Street, sir.”

“What happened?”

“No one knows. A group of fifteen or twenty people from one of the bars suddenly turned violent and started attacking people who were outside marching in the Halloween parade. Five are reported dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jesus shit.”

“There might be an officer down.”

Horton let go of the rookie’s arm. “Go!” he said.

The officer hurried away, and Horton strode through the activity to Goodridge’s office. He had a hunch about this, a weird feeling in his gut. He didn’t think that the Daneams had started the riot because they knew the police had a fingerprint and had identified it and were about to come after old Margeaux. Not exactly. But he had no doubt that they were involved. He’d stake his career on it. He had never trusted those lezzies. He didn’t know if they were putting something into their wine or were practicing witchcraft, but they were somehow behind all of this violence, and he was damn sure going to put a stop to it.

He walked into the chief’s office, showed him the printout, told him about the match, and said that he needed a warrant and some men.

“I can’t spare anyone,” Goodridge said. “Why don’t you hold off until tomorrow. Margeaux Daneam’s not going anywhere.”

Horton stared at him, stunned. “What?”

The chief looked at him coolly. “You heard me. It’ll wait.”

“We found her bloody fingerprint on the bottle that was used to penetrate and rupture Ann Melbury, and I’m not supposed to arrest her?”

Goodridge opened his bottom desk drawer, drew out a Daneam wine bottle.

“Relax, Horton. You take things much too seriously. Have a drink. Loosen up a little.”

Horton stared at the chief, cold washing over him. He turned without speaking and walked out of the office.

“Horton!” Goodridge called after him.

He ignored the chief’s cry and continued walking. He spotted Deets in front of the supply room, waiting to be issued riot gear, and he grabbed the young cop. “You’re coming with me,” he said.

“But I’m supposed to—”

“We matched the print from the bottle. We’ve got our murderer. I want you in on the collar.”

Deets was suddenly at attention. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Horton frowned. “How many times have I told you about that ‘sir’ shit?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I just got—”

“Get a black-and-white,” Horton said. “Bring it around front. I’ll meet you there.”

“Yes, si— Okay!” He sprinted down the corridor, against the traffic.

Horton reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, lit it. So they wouldn’t have a warrant. No big deal. Phillips would get him one after the fact and backdate it. What the chief would do… That was another story.

He took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaled deeply, then pushed his way past a line of uniforms toward the front door.

They pulled up in front of the winery, parking in one of the visitor spaces. He had expected someone to meet them, since they’d had to announce themselves and somebody within one of the buildings had had to open the gate for them, but the place appeared to be deserted.

He didn’t like that.

He was nervous enough already, but Deets seemed not to notice anything amiss. The young officer got out of the car, straightened his belt, then started toward the front door of the main building, stopping only when he realized that Horton was not following.

“Lieutenant?” he called.

Horton lumbered around the back of the vehicle, caught up to Deets. His cop sense was working overtime. He had never before been as flat-out spooked as he was right now, and he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

He didn’t want to be here after dark.

It was pathetic but it was true. His uneasiness had nothing to do with Margeaux Daneam or even the unnatural gruesomeness of the murders she was going to be charged with. It was something more instinctual, more primal, and he did not want to be here when night fell.

Cop’s instinct or drunk’s paranoia?

He didn’t know. But whatever it was, it wasn’t shared by Deets. The rookie was striding purposefully toward the main building: a Greek-looking structure facing the parking lot and the drive. Horton followed his footsteps.

“Here!”

The woman’s voice came from somewhere off to their left, and Horton turned to see where it was coming from. He thought he saw movement in the late-afternoon shadows that shaded the area between the main building and the structure immediately adjacent to it, but he was not sure.

“Ms. Daneam?” he called.

There was a chorus of wild female laughter, the high, manic sound of several women cackling at the tops of their lungs, and a cold shiver of fear passed through him. Again, he saw movement in the shadows.

“Ms. Daneam? We’re from the—”

The door to the adjacent building opened, and for a second, against the interior light,