Lover Arisen (Black Dagger Brotherhood #20)(38)

As she came up to a red light, she threw out a hand for her bag. The Motrin bottle she had been hitting hard since around four a.m. was right in reach. Maybe she should just make things even easier and Velcro the thing to her palm.

Or her forehead.

Shaking out two more pills, she swallowed them dry—or tried to. She was gagging and coughing and thinking about brain tumors when the light turned green.

Driving on, she thought of all those other detectives who complained about migraines, aneurysms, strokes. It was almost a rite of passage in homicide for someone to insist that their doctor order an MRI—

“Ow,” she muttered as things started to pound again.

Fighting through the pain, she got stuck at the next intersection—and reminded herself things could be worse. With the way the pedestrians on the crosswalk were hunkering down against the wind, you’d have sworn it was January, not April.

Ah, spring in Caldwell. The only thing warmer was a meat locker, the only thing less gusty, a turbine.

As she watched the people trudge by, she found herself sinking into sadness, sure as if she were missing somebody. The sensation at her sternum made no sense, and yet she couldn’t shake the idea that she had left someone behind.

Ghosts following her even before the sun went down.

About ten minutes later, she pulled up in front of the Commodore. By the grace of God, she managed to find an open parking spot—and when she went to put money in the meter, there were twenty-eight minutes remaining on the thing.

“Maybe my luck is changing,” she murmured as she stared up the flank of the high-rise.

The Commodore was luxury living at its finest, at least according to its fancy new trademark. The building had previously been all condos, but a management company had bought out most of the lower floor units to take advantage of short-term stays. Functioning now as part hotel, part residence, it had gotten a major facelift.

Walking over to the entrance, she pushed her way into the marble lobby and instantly smelled a pungent fragrance, something that was a combination of astringent and rose petals.

Guess the spa they’d added was up and running.

There was a concierge at the front desk, and as she flashed her badge, he didn’t even ask who she was on-site to see. He just nodded her through like he didn’t want any more trouble in the building—and really didn’t want a detective loitering around, chatting it up.

Given that she had been here a lot lately, on account of two very messy homicides, the Commodore’s corporate overlords were no doubt getting antsy. Murder houses were great for road traffic, foot traffic, and the month of October. They were not great for the renters and owners of expensive urban real estate.

The elevator took her up to the first floor of the penthouse triplex—and as soon as she stepped out into the hall, her footfalls faltered.

Something had happened here… something involving—

Her thoughts fragmented as her headache got worse, sure as if the agony was determined to redirect her or lay her out flat on the carpet if necessary—and she was sick of it. Tomorrow morning first thing, she was calling her doctor and getting a referral to a neurologist. She couldn’t keep going like this. The headaches were constant, and though she could swear she’d found a pattern to it all, the idea that what she was thinking about was the driver was just nuts.

It was also not a medical diagnosis.

Pushing through the discomfort, she went down the hallway’s runner and stopped at an ornate door that was marked with a little brass plate that read: “Mr. and Mrs. Herbert C. Cambourg.”

Before Erika could ring the bell, the entrance to the triplex opened. The tall, thin woman on the other side had long, blond-streaked hair that was straight as a ruler, a face as smooth and lovely as a Renaissance marble bust, and a body that was right out of the Kate Moss tradition of models. As a chaser to all that, her dark blue pencil jeans and high-collared blouse were tailor-fit to her—and definitely cost more than Erika’s monthly mortgage payment.

Then again, Mr. Cambourg had had good taste in art, whether it was inanimate or the living-and-breathing variety.

On the other hand, the objects he wanted to collect was a different matter.

“I saw you on the security camera,” Keri Cambourg explained. “And as I said, you never have to apologize. Anytime you want to come here, you’re welcome.”

“I wish I had some news about your case.” Erika stepped inside the long, formal corridor. “I do want to assure you that we’re going to find the person who killed your husband.”

Keri closed them in and then leaned back against the paneled door. “I’m not sure you will, and I don’t mean any disrespect. Nothing about this has made any sense to me.”

“I’m not giving up.”

“I’m not sure I care anymore.” The widow crossed her arms around herself. Looked away. Looked back. “I guess that sounds bad.”

“People grieve in different ways. There is no right or wrong—”

“I’ve had three women come here in the last two days. Three of them. They walked past the concierge downstairs—and do you want to know why? My husband has another unit in this building, and the concierge knew them all. They’ve been rotating through, evidently.” As Erika cursed under her breath, the widow shook her head. “I knew that Herb… well, I wasn’t oblivious to what he was doing on his business trips. He never threw it in my face, however—or that’s what I thought. In reality, he was just a better liar than I could have guessed. Another apartment… downstairs, in this very building. Can you believe it? The lawyer broke the news to me today.”