Midnight Man (Midnight #1)(30)

A hard hand cupped her neck, pushing her head gently down. “Breathe.”

She didn’t need to see him to recognize John’s voice, recognize his touch. Obediently, she bent and tried to breath past the shakiness. Slowly the stars before her eyes receded. There were people in the room, talking, moving around, but she only registered John’s presence. Large and solid beside her. “Come on now, breathe deeply.”

She swallowed heavily and looked away, down. Breathed. Deeply. In and out. Concentrating on that and not on her stomach trying to come up.

“Suzanne?” Another male voice. Not John. She risked looking up and almost regretted it. Any movement made her stomach swoop.

Tyler Morrison. Everyone but her friend Claire called him Bud. He looked like a Bud. Tall and powerfully built, with light brown hair and light brown eyes which turned soft whenever he looked at Claire. His eyes were hard now, all business.

“Hi, Bud.”

“You okay?”

“Peachy,” she gasped and swallowed again. Her stomach seemed to have lodged itself somewhere in the middle of her chest but at least it wasn’t sliding greasily upwards. She was released and a moment later John took her hand, wrapping it around a glass. “Here, drink this.”

Suzanne gulped the ice water down gratefully. It went down in one chill rush, soothing the overheated feeling that accompanies a wave of nausea. “Thanks,” she murmured. She tried on a smile for John but got no answering smile back. “I needed that.” She turned to Bud. “You got here quickly.”

“It’s our new citizen-friendly policy. We aim to please.” Bud smiled faintly but it was clear that he was here as “The Police” and not as her friend Claire’s boyfriend, a man she’d had drinks and dinner with. His face was serious, his manner sober. “Okay, honey. There are some things we need to go over. But before we do, I need you to do something for me. Come over here.”

He gestured and Suzanne followed him to the dead body lying on his stomach. She had to step around the pool of blood and felt saliva fill her mouth. With an enormous effort, Suzanne willed her stomach to stay right where it was. John’s arm slipped around her waist. She leaned into him, into the strength and the heat of him. At that moment, she didn’t care what Bud thought. She was just grateful for the support of that iron arm. Her legs were shaking and she knew he would keep her upright forever, if need be.

Three men were kneeling around the body. All three had carefully chosen the few places that weren’t spattered with blood. One was finishing up taking fingerprints using digital she remembered seeing on CSI, another was taking swabs, and the third was using tweezers to pick up fibers, putting them in a glassine envelope.

A bright flash behind her went off and Suzanne jumped.

“Steady,” John murmured, his deep voice a bare whisper, for her ears only.

She drew in a deep breath and nodded. John’s arm tightened around her. They were standing hip to hip but his attention was directed outwards. His face was remote; gaze cold and vigilant as it made its way in regular sweeps around the room. Were it not for his arm firmly about her, Suzanne would have imagined that he wasn’t even aware of her presence. And yet he knew every move she made.

Another flash went off, then another and another as the photographer, a short, sandy-haired man with a blond beard, circled the body. The flashes continued steadily until finally the camera was dropped, allowed to rest hanging against the technician’s chest by a leather strap.

“That about wraps it up, Lieutenant,” the photographer said, stepping back.

“Okay, Lou,” Bud said. “Stand by. We’re going to see who we’ve got here.”

Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, Bud kneeled on a clear patch of floor. He studied the back of the dead man for a long moment. He reached out and pulled at the man’s right shoulder steadily until the dead man flopped over and settled on his back. “Okay, now.” Bud sat back on his haunches. “Who is he?” he asked, looking up at Suzanne then over at John.

She steeled herself and looked down.

The dead man had a long, narrow, deeply tanned face with regular features. Without the rictus of a painful death, he might have been mildly good-looking, though it was hard to tell. The wide-open eyes were a muddy brown, starred with deep lines in the skin around them, more a result of the effects of sun and weather than age. He had crooked, yellowish teeth. One eyetooth overlapped the incisor. The hair was dark brown, straight, shot through with a few gray hairs.

Bud was watching her. “Suzanne?”

She stared for another two minutes, nauseated, and then shook her head. “I’ve never seen that man before in my life,” she said firmly.

“John?”

John had only glanced at the dead man, and then had returned his attention back to the room. He shook his head. “Don’t know him.”

Bud stood, dusting his hands. “Well, you might not know him, Suzanne, but he knows you. I need to ask you a few questions.” He looked over. “You, too, John,” he said, faint irony in his voice.

Suzanne didn’t need to ask what kind of questions Bud had for John, not with John’s knife through the dead man’s throat.

“Let’s take it to the couch,” John said, his arm still around her. Suzanne knew he was shielding her. They couldn’t see the body from the couch.