Nightbred(33)

Lucan held up the scanned image of the receipt. “Was he mortal?”

“I cannot say,” Garcia admitted. “The proprietor described him as a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties who spoke with a faint European accent. From the florist shop he took a taxi to Port Everglades, and was last seen boarding a private tour boat with black-painted windows.”

Lucan kept close monitor on all the major illegal activities conducted in his territory by humans, especially the more inventive operations. To date only a handful had eluded his detection, including one very private casino. “So this secret admirer frequents the Treasure Palace.” He walked over to his desk and studied the map of South Florida hanging behind it. “How very interesting.”

“Racketeering has never been able to locate the casino or positively identify the operators, as every victim has been found dead within days of filing a police report,” Garcia said. “However, in each case the victims who came in contact with the casino’s owner gave a description of him that matches that of the man who sent the flowers to your lady. The only name the casino owner used was ‘Dutch.’”

“My darling Samantha doesn’t gamble,” Lucan said as he took his sygkenis’s mobile phone out of his pocket, and began scrolling through her call history. “In fact, she refuses to purchase so much as a lottery ticket. Did she investigate the murders of any of the victims?”

“No. In each case, the medical examiner ruled out homicide,” Garcia told him, and reluctantly added, “They all committed suicide by hanging.”

A crack appeared in one of the windows as Lucan turned on him. “They hung themselves within days of making reports to the police, all of them, and this was not considered murder? Your colleagues are feeble idiots, Captain.”

“I am in agreement, my lord.” Garcia sounded just as disgusted. “But these cases were never sent over to my department, so I first learned of them only tonight.”

In no mood to replace every glass door in his study, Lucan forced back his anger. “So why does he pursue my sygkenis? Not to gain access to what the police know about his victims.”

“He could learn that by romancing any records clerk,” the tresora said. “I worry his intentions may be more personal in nature.” He nodded toward the mobile. “There is a text that came in for her an hour ago that you should perhaps read.”

“Oh, he texts, does he?” Lucan returned to the main menu and pulled up the text messages sent to Samantha’s phone. He found one from an unfamiliar number sent just after midnight, and opened it. “He writes, ‘The flowers are only the beginning, my lovely. Meet me tonight at the Turtle’s Nest, eight p.m.’ His lovely, is she? Does he think she’s some common tart to be had with a few posies?” He closed his fist, crushing the mobile into a handful of twisted components.

His fury ebbed as unexpectedly as it had come over him, and Lucan regarded the small heap of twisted components that had once been Samantha’s mobile. “Garcia?” He looked over the desk at the tresora, who had gone to his knees and held his arms over his head.

“My lord.” Garcia stood, shedding small showers of shattered glass as he did. He picked one dagger-shaped shard from the back of his hand and calmly wrapped a handkerchief over the wound. “This may have nothing to do with your lady at all. This Dutch could be using her to get to you.”

“Then it is working,” Lucan said flatly. “What more can you tell me?”

“The Turtle’s Nest was the name of a dockside café a mile south of Bahia Mar, but it went out of business some time ago. There are no other businesses operating from that pier.” He started to say something else, and then subsided into silence.

“Now is not the time for discretion, Captain.”

“Couples have been known to make use of the place,” Garcia admitted. “When they cannot afford or acquire a motel room.”

“Indeed. How very deliberate a choice.” Lucan went to his shelves, reaching through the shattered door to extract a book, which he handed to the tresora. “It is yours,” he insisted when Garcia hesitated. “You have more than earned it.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Garcia brushed some glass from the book before tucking it under his arm.

Lucan studied the ruins of his bookcases. “Ernesto, have you ever considered Samantha to be . . . fickle?”

“No, my lord.” The tresora sounded genuinely surprised. “Even when she was human, my lady was completely dependable. In fact I have never worked with so reliable or dedicated an officer.” His expression changed. “She would never trifle with this mortal, my lord, or any other male. You must know that. This Dutch means only to bait you, or do her harm. I can arrange to send a female decoy to meet him tomorrow night, and have men waiting to take him as soon as he shows.”