Phoenix Rising Read online

  Part One New York City

  Prologue

  I am all.

  I am nothing.

  I am your brightest, most beautiful dream, and your

  darkest, most secret desire. I am the burning golden heat of the sun, and the quiet, silver-blue shadows of the moon.

  I am man. I am woman.

  I am nothing.

  I am all.

  Chapter One Artemis

  There are four kinds of homicide: felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy.

  —Ambrose Bierce THE phone on the nightstand woke Homicide Detective Artemis Gregory just past 4:00 a.m. Stubbornly keeping his eyes closed despite there being no chance in hell he’d be able to go back to sleep, he grabbed it without fumbling from long practice. “Gregory.”

  “We’ve got another one,” his partner, Rachel Wayland, said in her sexy “I don’t smoke but I sound like I do” voice.

  Gregory immediately got a picture of her in his mind: tall, slender, long auburn hair always clipped back, warm brown eyes, mobile mouth. She was pretty enough to model but dismissed her good looks, preferring to work in law enforcement. She’d told him more than once how much she enjoyed partnering with him. “I like that you’re gay, Gregory. I like knowing you will never be the slightest bit tempted to hit on me.”

  “Is it our moon killer?” This would be the third. First night of each month’s full moon, a young, attractive man was killed. They were hunting another loony tune who possibly saw himself as a werewolf, though this one, at least, didn’t bite off chunks of his victim’s flesh. In fact, they didn’t know how he killed them, only that he fucked them and then they croaked. There had been 536 homicides in NYC the year before; similarities were carefully tracked in all cases, and these deaths stood out because there was no obvious cause for them.

  “Initial reports point that way.” She rattled off the address. “Bring coffee, and maybe croissants?”

  Grinning, he hung up, stretched, rose, and dressed. Expecting the call, he’d showered before bed, just in case. So far they had lots of DNA,but no matches. The killer’s prints were not listed in IAFIS (Integrated Automated Fingerprint ID System), nor had they gotten a hit at CODIS (Combined DNA Index System). After this killing, a task force would be assembled, and someone at ViCAP (Violent Criminal Apprehension Program) would probably get involved. He hoped the FBI didn’t send a complete weenie.

  He looked at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. No gray hairs yet in his short black hair, even though being a cop was famous for causing early aging. His brown eyes were still clear, and there were no lines around them or his wide mouth. His tall, tightly muscled body was holding up, too, despite his not having time to visit the gym; mostly he did free weights at home and sit-ups to keep his stomach flat. Not bad for 33. I could get me some, if I had the time. He rinsed and spit, dragged a comb through his hair, and left.

  The streets were full of garbage trucks and drunks. In a couple hours, buses and cars would start to move. Humidity was already making the hot summer air worse. He loved this city. He also hated it, having grown up in Michigan. The Upper Peninsula was quite possibly the most beautiful place in the world, if you loved trees and water and more trees. It was a backpacker’s wet dream. But you also had to love winter, because it started early and stayed late. After high school, his family decided they didn’t love it that much anymore and moved to New York, where Artemis eventually attended college before moving on to the police academy. He considered himself a New Yorker now, another denizen of the over-crowded city, but recently he’d been dreaming of trees and water and more trees.

  He stopped at a Starbucks on the way to the crime scene. If he forgot Rachel’s coffee, she’d kill him.

  Lots of people were milling around the brownstone when he arrived. Someone recognized him and said, “Second floor back.”

  Nodding, Artemis galloped up the stoop and through the open door, careful not to spill or drop anything. “Second floor back” was teeming with CSU and other interested parties, but only the ME and CSU were in the bedroom with the body. NYPD threw lots of people at a major crime. Sometimes this worked well. At other times, it merely muddied the waters.

  Rachel nodded at him, took her coffee and croissant, and handed him a pair of latex gloves. He slipped them on, gazing at the victim. “Not in here,” he cautioned her.

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Thisisn’t my first rodeo.”

  “Uh-uh.” No food or liquid at a crime scene. It could contaminate evidence, and the smell alone might mask other odors. “Who called this in?”

  “One of his roommates. You saw him in the other room.”

  Artemis remembered. A nice-looking young man with eyes red from crying and wet pants; he’d pissed himself upon finding the body.

  Rachel continued. “Came home to quite a surprise. Third roommate is away, visiting his sister in Jersey.”

  The victim was young, beautiful, and naked, his limbs spread-eagled on the bed. “He looks arranged, don’t you think?” He eyed the body with interest. The skin was uniformly pale, untouched by the sun. The expression on the dead man’s face was calm, peaceful. His lower legs were covered with scratches, deep enough to bleed. Cameras flashed as CSU took pictures. “Cause of death?”

  John Nolan, the medical examiner, swabbed an intimate part of the victim’s body. “Have to wait for the autopsy, but I suspect it will be the same as the other two. ‘No apparent cause of death'.” He frowned. “It’s just not right.”

  “Has the victim been ID'd?” Artemis asked. His roommates, family, friends, neighbors, and coworkers would be questioned politely but extensively by the NYPD over the next few days.

  “Donny Carlson,” one of the CSU offered. “Found his wallet in the nightstand. He was twenty years old. He had a driver’s license issued in Illinois. Letters from home found near the door indicate he only recently arrived in our fair city. Roommate confirms Carlson moved in a couple months ago.”

  Donny probably had parents, maybe siblings. He’d certainly had dreams, and had come here to fulfill them. Artemis waited for Nolan to finish collecting his samples, including scraping under the nails, before doing a quick examination of his own.

  On Carlson’s back, Artemis found a small gold-inked tattoo of a bird with outstretched wings. It was beautiful and exquisitely detailed. He’d seen it before on the first victim, only that one had been on a left hip. They’d canvassed some of the shops, asking about it, and tracked it to a place in Times Square named Demon Tattoos. The owner had told them the design was exclusive to that shop and was proving popular with fans of the rock band Phoenix Rising. He’d provided a list of clients who had asked for it, but nothing further had been done with it.

  “Nolan? Preliminary findings?”

  “Mr. Carlson engaged in anal sex shortly before death. No condom. I got a sample of the semen.”

  “Consensual?”

  “As far as I can tell. Minor anal tears, as you might expect, no blood,lots of lubricant.”

  Artemis frowned. “Barebacking, just like the first two victims.”

  He grabbed his bag. “We done here?”

  “For now. Send me the report as soon as it’s completed.”

  It was difficult to take his eyes off Donny Carlson. Under other circumstances, Artemis might have ended up with him after meeting him at some bar. Instead, Carlson had gone home with someone inappropriate and been killed. Artemis took pictures with his cell, most of them of the bird tattoo.

  Donny was bagged, loaded onto a stretcher, and taken from the room. The CSU swarmed, gathering evidence now revealed by the body’s removal. One of them handed an evidence bag to Artemis. “Take a look at that.”

  Inside the bag was a feather about th
ree inches long, gently curved tip to end, the barbs an iridescent gold that flashed red as he turned it under the ceiling light. Below the barbs and above the calamusthe hollow shaft that was inserted into skinwere downy after-feathers. “Did Donny or a roommate have a bird?” he asked the room. Various negative responses came back. He held the bag up. “Anyone know what bird this belongs to?”

  Everyone glanced his way, then shrugged and went back to work. Artemis handed the bag back to the CSU; it would go to the lab for study when they returned to headquarters.

  He gave Rachel a sharp look. “Demon Tattoos. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Two Artemis

  Art is the most beautiful deception of all. And although people try to incorporate the everyday events of life in it, we must hope that it will remain a deception, lest it become a utilitarian thing, sad as a factory.

  —Claude Debussy HE REVIEWED the files from the first two murders while Rachel drove. She did this one-handed, as she was busy eating her pastry and sucking down coffee with the other.

  “They should have microwaves in cars, don’t you think? This shit is only lukewarm.”

  “I’d rather have a toilet,” he responded, reviewing notes

  of the first murder. “Winged bird tat found on left hip of the

  first vic, Jason Embry. Skin and blood from the nail

  scrapings were not his, and again, semen up the ass. No

  feathers at that scene, or the second one. Hair samples,

  though, head and pubes. Subsequent DNA tests confirmed

  perp was the same in both murders.” He growled softly, still

  reading. “Tons of DNA, fingerprints, and no match anywhere.

  This guy is a cipher.”

  “We’re gonna have the FBI on our asses after this one.

  Three murders equals serial killer,” she said, barreling

  around a corner. Her coffee cup tilted and spilled. “Shit.” Artemis jerked his leg away from the liquid. “Good thing

  it’s lukewarm, huh?”

  “Sorry. We’re looking for a Caucasian with straight

  blond hair, worn rather long, and if he fits the usual profile,

  he’s between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, has a

  higher-than-average IQ, and chooses his victims from a very

  select group: gorgeous young gay men.” She twitched her lips

  at him. “Something I’m betting you know a little about.” “Are you suggesting that sleeping with men makes me

  an authority on everything gay, including who might be

  killing them?” He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. She shrugged, not bothered by his tone. They had long

  since reached the point in their partnership where

  annoyances could be borne. “You know more about that

  culture than I do.”

  He looked away from her and out the passenger window.

  The sky was gunmetal gray with the faintest touches of

  yellow at the zenith; the sun was up, but down here in the

  concrete canyon, it would take a while to make its presence

  known. “The victims didn’t know each other. They didn’t

  work in related industries. They didn’t come from the same

  hometown or even the same state. Maybe they ran into each

  other at a club or bar, but there are no witnesses to that.

  Something connects them, but what?”

  “We’ll get it,” Rachel assured him, pulling into the curb

  and parking.

  He found himself looking at Demon Tattoos, its security

  bars still in place. “Not open yet, but there’s a light on in back. Let’s bang on the alley door, throw some official weight

  around.”

  It took a while, but eventually a grizzled, sleepy-eyed

  man answered their pounding. Scratching his impressively

  large, T-shirted belly, he yawned. “Whaddaya want? Place

  don’t open for another hour.” They flashed their badges. “I

  already talked to the cops a few weeks ago. Now what?” With Rachel on his heels, Artemis pushed his way

  inside, finding himself in an untidy living space. A cot was

  shoved in one corner, a hot plate in another, and clothing

  hung from hooks on a wall. Frowning, he looked at the man.

  “Nelson Creed, right? That’s your name?”

  “Yeah,” he grumbled, this time scratching one thigh. His

  hair stood up in sleep spikes, and he hadn’t shaved in a few

  days.

  “There’s been another murder.” Artemis pulled the

  phone out of his pocket. “You talked to different guys last

  time. Now talk to us. Tell us about the bird design.” He

  found the picture on his phone and flipped it around,

  holding it at arm’s length.

  Creed squinted at it. “Yeah, the phoenix. Girls like it.

  Also very popular with fans of the band.” He glanced up.

  “Phoenix Rising. Really big in Europe, recently came over

  here.”

  Rachel wandered around the room, looking here,

  touching lightly there. “I have tickets to their Central Park

  concert.”

  Creed’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Jesus, how in hell did

  you score those?”

  She shrugged. “My nephew works in the ticket office. He

  saved me a couple.”

  “You are one lucky bitch… uh, woman. I don’t suppose

  you’d consider selling me one?”

  Rachel laughed. “Nope. I know what they’re worth.” Artemis gave her a raised eyebrow before addressing

  Creed. “This design is exclusive to your shop?”

  Creed nodded. “Follow me.” He led them out front,

  turned on the lights, and grabbed a thick binder off the

  counter, thumbing through it until he found what he was

  looking for. He handed it to Artemis. “This is the flash.” Rachel leaned over Artemis’s shoulder. “That’s a really

  beautiful design.”

  The color work was under plastic on the left, a line

  drawing on the right. Artemis took a picture of both pages

  with his cell.

  “Flash,” Creed said again. “Learn the lingo. You’ll

  impress your friends.” He gargled a laugh. “The band’s

  business manager arranged it with me, said I could use it to

  promote them. It’s been popular.”

  “And he didn’t give you concert tickets?” Rachel asked,

  her voice dripping sweetness.

  Creed glared. “I asked. He said they were sold out.

  Maybe it would have helped if I’d been a cop.”

  “It would have helped if you’d been related to him. Got

  the manager’s phone number?” He did, and she wrote it

  down.

  Artemis asked, “Is that common, being given exclusive

  use of a design?” Rachel always did that, distracted people

  while he asked the questions. It usually served them well,

  sometimes resulting in revelations they would not have otherwise gotten. With Creed, it helped put him at ease,

  which, if you’re a cop, is no small thing.

  “Sure. I put it in my advertising and it brings in

  customers. He gets a cut every time I use it. We both win.” Artemis flipped through pictures on his phone.

  “Recognize him?” He shoved the cell in Creed’s face. It was a

  picture of dead Donny Carlson.

  He shook his head. “One of the others must have

  worked on him. Anybody can follow a line drawing if they’re

  experienced with the gun.”

  “Gun?”

  He gave Artemis a pitying look. “Piercing gun, not the

  kind you car
ry around.”

  “How many operators work here?” Rachel asked. “Three, plus me. It’s a small shop, but getting more

  popular all the time.” He grinned at Rachel. “I’ll do you for

  free, baby. Want an angel on your shoulder?”

  She snorted softly. “No, thanks. I’m not into selfmutilation.”

  Artemis bit his lip to stop his chuckle. “I need a list of

  everyone who’s gotten this tattoo.”

  “I already provided that,” he said with exaggerated

  patience.

  “That was weeks ago,” Artemis said. “Consider it an

  update.”

  IN THE car, driving to headquarters, Artemis looked at the list of people who’d paid to have a phoenix tattooed on their flesh. He spotted Donny’s name and that of Jason Embry, the first victim. Everyone on this list would be contacted and warned; hopefully that would help keep them safe. He’d send someone back to the shop to question the operators. It was unlikely any of them were the murderer, given their direct connection to two of the victims, but it had to be checked out.

  A question occurred to him, and he checked the files. “Why didn’t Ken Darwin have this tattoo? What was different about him?” Ken had been the second victim.

  “Dunno.” She braked hard at a light. “Circumstances? Maybe this one fell into the murderer’s lap?”

  “It bugs me that there is no obvious motive. Why kill

  these young men? Thrill seeker? Lunatic? Someone who’s

  taking revenge on gay men because of some slight, real or

  imagined? Except they all appeared to have died peacefully.

  No trauma, so it couldn’t be revenge, could it?” He stared

  hard at his picture of the tattoo, as if it might whisper

  something to him. “What do you know about Phoenix

  Rising?”

  “Played all over Europe before coming here—did you see

  that asshole cut me off? I oughta give him a ticket.” She laid

  on the horn. “He wouldn’t have done that if we’d been in a

  squad car.”

  “Phoenix Rising,” he reminded her, hiding a smile.

  Rachel was all about road rage. He shouldn’t let her drive,

  but he enjoyed the frequent adrenaline rushes it provided

  him.