The Darkest Kiss (Riley Jenson Guardian #6)(9)

He glanced at the number then shoved it into his back pocket. “Thanks for coming out, Riley. I really do appreciate it.”
I waved his thanks away. “As I said, it may yet turn out that there’s nothing I can do.”
“But you tried. More than the cops are doing, I fear.”
There was no point in answering, simply because he was right. The cops wouldn’t be chasing a BDSM session gone wrong as hard as they would a straight-out murder. It was a simple fact of policing life that priorities had to be given.
We left the apartment and rattled down the stairs. A couple of older men were near Ben’s bike, one of them kneeling, as if inspecting the internals. I smiled. “You’ve got fans. Or your bike has.”
“Beautiful bikes always get admirers. It’s par for the course.” He shrugged. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“You will.” I half-waved a good-bye, briefly watching—and enjoying—the sight of him sauntering toward the two men, then climbed into my car and drove off.
As I headed back into the traffic, I grabbed my phone and rang Kade.
“Hey, horse man,” I said, when he answered. “What’s happening out your way?”
“Nothing of interest at Gerard’s place. I’m going back to the Directorate to hassle Cole for his initial report. There might be something helpful in there.”
Hassling Cole didn’t work. I’d tried it. “So no sign of a cat, real or shifter, at Gerard’s?”“Not a hair.” He paused, and in the background, the music changed from dance to rock. “What are you doing?”
“The secretary told me who he was dating last night. I’m heading over to talk to her now.”
“You want me along?”
“No, I’ll be all right. I’ll meet you back at the Directorate. Have a coffee ready for me. The real stuff, not that black muck we have in the machine.”
“Your wish is my command,” he said, voice deepening and oh so sexy.
I snorted. “Not going to work, my friend.”
He laughed. “I can but try. See you soon.”
I hung up and headed on. The traffic was so bad it took me another twenty minutes to get back to Alana Burns’s apartment. Pressing the buzzer once again had little effect and there was no security guard handily sitting inside the small foyer to harass.
I stepped back and studied the balconies. There was a small concrete wall that separated the front stairs from the drive that led into the underground parking lot, but even if I stood on that, it was still a hell of a jump to the first balcony.
But maybe it wasn’t so far for an inexperienced seagull to fly.
Excitement and doubt fluttered through me. Flying from a drop was a whole lot different than flying upward, but I had nothing to lose by trying. Nothing except more bruises.
I grabbed my cell and my badge out of my purse, shoved them into my pocket, then dropped the bag behind a potted bush, well out of sight. Then I clambered onto the wall and called to the magic in my soul. It swept through me, changing muscles and bone and body, until I was once again that dreaded seagull. I paddled along the wall a little bit, then looked up at the balcony.
It looked like a long, long way.
I could do this. It was just a matter of concentration. I adjusted my tail feathers and raised my wings, beating them as fast as I could to get the lift I needed. Down, back, up, down, back, up. And suddenly, I was going up, cutting through the air. Flying.
I felt like cheering. I concentrated on not falling instead.
I fluttered up and over the railing, then spread my tail feathers to act as a brake. But the change was too sudden, and I dropped too quickly, splattering chest-first against the concrete.
“Ow,” I muttered, even though it came out little more than a harsh squawk. I rolled onto my back and shifted to human form. My chest still hurt. More bruises, no doubt.
Even so, I couldn’t help a silly grin. I’d flown. Even if my landings needed more work, I’d actually flown rather than simply making a guided fall. Maybe this whole flying gig wasn’t as bad as previously thought.
I climbed to my feet. As usual, my jeans had made it through the shift just fine, but my shirt had been shredded. They were usually pretty useless after a shift to wolf, but the destruction here was even worse. 
Maybe it had something to do with trying to squash everything into a smaller form. I didn’t know, but maybe Jack or Henry would.
I pulled off the now-useless remnants of my bra and shoved it into my back pocket, then tied the torn edges of my shirt together. I wasn’t going anywhere except back to the Directorate once I finished here, so the state of my clothing didn’t really matter. Now I just had to get into the apartment.
I walked toward the glass sliding door, and that’s when it hit.
The smell of death.
A death that was old and as rotten as hell.
Chapter 3

If the smell was this bad out here, I’d hate to think what it was like in the apartment.
Unfortunately, it was my job to find out.
I peered through the glass and tried not to breathe too deeply. The only thing I could see in the small living area was dusty furniture and yellowing newspapers sitting on the coffee table—both indicators that someone hadn’t been living in this apartment for quite a while.
So either Alana was no longer living here—and if she wasn’t, why had she answered Rosy’s phone call yesterday?—or she was here, and in a very bad way.
Which I guess went with what the smell was suggesting.
It also suggested that maybe it wasn’t Alana who’d dated our dead politician.
I blew out a breath, then gripped the handle of the sliding door and pulled back with all my might. I had the strength of both a werewolf and a vampire behind me, and the little metal clip holding the sliding door closed didn’t stand a chance. The door crashed back with enough noise to wake the dead, and the force of it sent a shudder recoiling up my arm.
But it was nothing compared to the smell that assaulted my senses. My stomach rose in a rush and I gagged. The stench was vile.
Whoever—whatever—was dead in this apartment had been that way for some time. Although the air rushing out of the apartment was hot—the heating had obviously been left on high, so maybe that had helped accelerate the decomposition of whatever it was lying inside.
I stepped back until I was breathing fresh air again, then took a deep breath and dashed inside. It was only ever going to be a quick look. I couldn’t hold my breath longer than a minute or so.
I ran into the first room off the living room. It turned out to be a spotless kitchen. No junk in the fridge, no unwashed dishes, no trash in the basket. Nothing that would account for the smell. The next room was a bathroom, and once again it was spotless.
The third room…
That’s where I found her, lying half-dressed on the bed with one arm still in the sleeve of a sweater—as if whoever had killed her had caught her in the middle of either taking it off or putting it on. She only wore panties on the bottom half, and her body was heavy and bloated and…horrible.
Bile burned up my throat, and I raced outside, gulping in fresh air and trying not to vomit. God, unpleasant didn’t even begin to describe that experience.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t smelled death before. I had. Hell, I was a wolf, and the wild part of me actually enjoyed rolling in stuff that would make my human half scream in revulsion. But I’d never smelled a death that old before. Or that deep into decay.
I shuddered, then got out my phone and rang Jack.
“Parnell here,” he said, voice neutral. The tone he reserved for official speaking moments like press conferences. Given who our dead man was, it was an even-money bet that was exactly where he was. “What can I do for you?”
“Jack, it’s Riley. I’m over at the apartment of Alana Burns, the woman Gerard James supposedly went out with last night. Only she’s dead, and has been that way for at least a week, if the putrefaction is anything to go by.”“Hang on a sec.” A muffled conversation came down the phone line, then footsteps. “Okay, we’ll have to make this fast. I’ve got a room full of reporters waiting for an update. What’s this about a dead woman?”
“Her name is Alana Burns—if it is her body inside the apartment. According to the secretary, Gerard James went out with her last night.”
“Or someone pretending to be her.”
Exactly. “James’s secretary rang Alana to confirm the afternoon of the date. She mentioned Alana being in a snit, so she definitely talked to someone. And it very definitely wasn’t the woman dead in the apartment.”
“Interesting.” He paused, and I heard voices in the background. “Has Cole requested the security tapes?”
“Yes. He was still at Gerard’s office when I left, though. I think he’s going to be there awhile.”
“Get another cleanup team out to the apartment, then go talk to the people at Marrberry House. They were running the charity function that Gerard attended last night. And keep me updated. I have the press and the politicians hounding my ass over this one.”
“Will do.”
I hung up, then dialed the Directorate. A less-than-cheery Sal answered. “What?”
Her voice was flat, and didn’t even hold the usual spark of annoyance when she knew it was me calling. Something had obviously gone wrong since the last time I’d talked to her. “If I didn’t know you were a vampire, I’d seriously suspect you were PMSing.”