Residual Moon Read online

  RESIDUAL MOON

  By

  Kate Sweeney

  Residual Moon

  © 2008 by Kate Sweeney

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN 10: 1-933113-94-4

  ISBN 13: 978-1-933113-94-4

  First Printing: 2008

  This Trade Paperback is published by

  Intaglio Publications

  Walker, La. USA

  www.intagliopub.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  _______________________________________________

  Credits

  Executive Editor: Tara Young

  Cover design by Sheri

  DEDICATION

  I am dedicating this book to a quirky man I met only once and have never seen again.

  Stay with me on this… While I was writing this book, I agonized over the title. I didn’t like what I had chosen originally. One night, I was sitting at the bar, waiting for a table at my favorite restaurant, when I entered into a discussion with this man over the moon and its effect on human behavior. It was his experience that people reacted more unusual in the days after the full moon. As he put it: “Maybe it was the after-effects of the full moon. Like, I dunno, a residual moon.”

  As I said, I never saw him again. Perhaps the gods threw him in my path to trip over and come up with the perfect title.

  Whatever the reason for the encounter—divine intervention or sheer dumb luck—I dedicate Residual Moon to that quirky man.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Denise Winthrop. I count on her good judgment more than she knows. She does so much more than beta read. Den is a constant and is consistently right; I’m not quite sure how she does that, but I no longer question it.

  To my sister Maureen. She came up with the prophecy, which is an integral part in Residual Moon. It was perfect.

  To Tara Young, my editor. Once again, proving I need to work on my adverbs. I thought I had the beast under control.

  To my betas Tracey, Tena, and Maureen. They catch the things that make me cringe.

  To Sheri Payton and Becky Arbogast of Intaglio, who constantly move forward and challenge their writers to be the best they can be.

  And to Kat Smith, owner of SCP and director of the GCLS, another constant. As I have said before, she is tireless in her efforts to promote lesbian fiction. I wish she could find time to write that damned sequel!

  Prologue

  The terrified woman whimpered behind the gag, sealed in place with the tape across her mouth. She closed her eyes tight, and he knew she was praying he would end this.

  “You must lie still,” he said. “You’re the second one. There’s only one left now, then your time is done. It was a valiant effort to keep it safe, but the power will be mine once again. We’ve waited generations for you fools. Now hold still,” he cooed and took the ornate dagger and held it to her flesh. “They’ll know you on the other side now by the mark I leave.”

  The muffled scream lasted until she passed out from the pain. He stood over the unconscious woman and slid the dagger back into its scabbard.

  “It is done. One more of you fools, and my time will be at hand once again,” he hissed angrily, then took a deep calming breath. He lifted his head to the moonlit night, closed his eyes and began chanting in the ancient language of his ancestors.

  He gained strength with each passing minute. The visions started again. They were more vivid since he found the second one. Visions of the ancient ways flashed through his mind.

  “Soon, you will see me. So very soon,” he whispered his promise into the night.

  Chapter 1

  Grayson fumbled in the darkness as she reached for the phone. “Yeah,” she mumbled. Clearing her throat, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand—3:30. Fuck me.

  “Grayson? It’s Stan. We’ve got another one.”

  “Fuck, where?” she asked, now fully awake. She sat on the side of the bed and ran her fingers through her thick raven hair.

  “BelmontHarbor. It’s the same M.O.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t let anyone touch a thing, Stan.”

  “Right.” The line went dead. Grayson rubbed her face and stood.

  “What’s going on?” the sleepy voice whispered.

  Grayson nearly forgot about her. She slipped into her jeans and flipped on the light.

  The blonde bed partner put a hand to her eyes. “God, you cops.” She groaned.

  Grayson snorted as she slipped into her running shoes and grabbed a sweatshirt. “I gotta go and so do you.”

  The woman sat up, pulling the sheet to her breasts. “Don’t you trust me in your house?” she asked as she watched Grayson slip into her shoulder harness.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know you, sweetheart, so c’mon, shake a leg,” she said and walked into the bathroom, stepping over the clothes that were strewn all over the floor from the previous night’s escapades.

  She splashed water on her face and ran her wet hands through her hair, then brushed her teeth. “C’mon, Sharon,” Grayson called as she spit in the sink.

  “It’s Sheila,” the woman called back.

  Grayson walked back into the bedroom. “Sorry. You weren’t supposed to stay the night, remember?” she said by way of an apology.

  Sheila raised an eyebrow as she buttoned up and slipped into her shoes. “It’s not my fault I passed out, Detective MacCarthaigh. You strapped that beast on before I knew what hit me,” she said in a sultry voice. She walked up to Grayson and ran her fingers over the leather holster strap, then over the hard muscles in her arms. “You have the most intense violet eyes, like Liz Taylor,” she said seductively. “When I saw you walk into the bar last night, I could see the sexual heat just radiating off your body. I knew we’d wind up in bed.”

  Grayson smirked and looked down into the brown eyes. Her groin throbbed incessantly. She took away the hand that had slipped under her sweatshirt. “Sexual heat? You must be a writer…gotta go.”

  “Will you call me?” Sheila asked as Grayson opened the front door and guided her through it.

  “Probably not.”

  Sheila grunted and walked to her car. “You’re a bit of an asshole, Grayson MacCarthaigh,” she snapped as she slid in behind the wheel of her car.

  “I know. You’re better off. I told you that last night.” Grayson stepped back quickly as the sports car peeled out of her driveway.

  “Go to hell, MacCarthaigh!” Sheila yelled.

  As she tore down the quiet street, dogs started barking in the distance. Grayson watched the red car pull out of sight.

  “Been there,” she said in a flat voice.

  Stan Resnick took a long drag off his cigarette and gazed out at the starry night over Lake Michigan. He was just out there the day before having a great time on his boat. His wife and kids had a riot. It was a glorious Indian summer day until Kathy begged him again to take the job in Minneapolis. She was tired of worrying about him every time he strapped on his weapon. He was nearly forty-five, and though he’d never been injured on the job, she still worried. He couldn’t blame her.

  Broken from his reverie, he looked down at the covered body. They roped off the area, and the patrolmen kept any onlookers at a safe distance. He looked up when he heard the rumble of the motorcycle. The rider flashed the badge, parked, and walked over to the
crime scene.

  “Morning, Detective MacCarthaigh, nice ride. Where’s the Mustang?” he asked absently.

  Grayson smirked. “In the shop. So what have we got?”

  “Well, partner…” He stopped when Grayson shot him an angry look. He smiled in spite of her intimidating glare.

  “We’re not partners.”

  “Detective MacCarthaigh,” Stan began, refusing to enter into another argument with her. “We have another. Done the same way, from what forensics says. Throat cut, hogtied, and dumped here, we think. Come here and look at this,” he said, and Grayson squatted next to him and the body.

  Stan took his gloved hand and gingerly lifted the victim’s left breast. Grayson craned her neck to see beneath it. Stan watched as his recalcitrant partner examined the area.

  There was another symbol. It was about two inches in diameter just under the left breast, the same size and location as the other. This symbol was different from the other found on the first victim; however, both had been hogtied and their throats cut.

  He and Grayson had been racking their brains for three weeks, trying to understand the symbol on the first victim. Now this new victim had been cut, but the symbol was different. With the first, there were three small lines in a row and a slash through the middle line.

  Grayson scanned the stretch of rocks, watching the Lake Michigan waves quietly lap on the shore. She took a deep tired breath and pulled back the sheet as she methodically examined the woman.

  “Same way, Gray,” Stan said.

  Grayson nodded but said nothing. He watched Grayson, who seemed deep in thought when he noticed the little, almost nervous habit his sullen partner had. She absently rubbed the fingers of her left hand against her palm as if trying to rub something off. He figured it was a quirky thing people do when they’re thinking. His uncle used to pull at his eyebrow when he was stumped or deep in thought.

  He brought his attention back to the poor woman on the beach.

  The deceased was lying on her side; her arms were tied behind her back, and her ankles were tied. Several ropes bound her breasts and abdomen.

  Grayson tentatively felt the rope. “It’s coarse, more like heavy twine. Shit and fuck me.”

  “Exactly.” Stan sighed tiredly. He flipped through his notes. “Of course nobody saw a thing.”

  “Of course.” Grayson stood and walked around the other side to get a look at the redheaded woman.

  “Coroner said it was duct tape across her mouth, like the other. Test results will be back in the morning.” He went on flipping the pages of his notepad. Stan took a deep breath and closed it. He glanced at Grayson.

  He knew Detective Sergeant Grayson MacCarthaigh was involved in a very messy situation a little over a year earlier. She had responded to a call along with other police officers—a hostage situation that went very bad. Grayson wound up with a bullet through her shoulder, and Victoria Green, the hostage negotiator, died in the foray of gunfire, saving Grayson and several other police officers.

  The fact that Ms. Green and Grayson were lovers only made matters worse. Grayson went into a tailspin. The department gave her a mandatory leave of absence to get her head back together. She was a rogue now; she didn’t feel comfortable with anyone. The department tried several partners, not wanting to cut her loose—Grayson MacCarthaigh was a very good cop with amazing instincts.

  But now she was a brooding loner. She put in for undercover duty with vice, and Stan remembered how the lieutenant nixed the application.

  “You’re homicide, MacCarthaigh. It’s in your blood, and with the number of homicides in my precinct alone, I can’t afford to let a good detective go.”

  Stan watched the twitching cheek muscles of the tall dark woman as she argued. Every muscle tensed as she leaned over his desk.

  The entire precinct heard them arguing. Finally, Lieutenant Keller banged his fist on his desk.

  “I tell you, Detective MacCarthaigh, not the other way around. Get the fuck out of here and do what you do best. Get over this and get back to work or you can go back and walk a beat. Goddamn it, quit arguing with me!” he bellowed more out of frustration than anger, Stan thought.

  MacCarthaigh turned on a dime and marched out of his office, then stormed out of the precinct. Stan sat there staring at the irate woman as her long legs took her out in a few healthy strides.

  “What a dynamo,” he whispered.

  With that, Keller yelled, “Resnick, get in here!”

  “Oh, fuck,” he muttered and obediently walked into Keller’s office.

  Keller took a deep calming breath. Stan knew before he even said anything. “I know. I’m her partner, right?”

  The old gray-haired man laughed tiredly. “She’s a fucking pain in my ass but the best detective in this precinct, no offense.”

  “None taken. I’ve read up on her—graduated from the academy earlier than anyone, started out as a patrolman, like her father, and citations up the wazoo. Made detective at twenty-three and sergeant three years later…”

  “She’ll have my job next, and it’ll be a waste, believe me. If anyone was born to be a detective in this city, it was Grayson MacCarthaigh. Her father was the same. I knew him well. He was an Irish bastard but a helluva cop,” he added with a tired sigh. “Now about this business last year with Grayson and Vicky Green,” he started awkwardly.

  “I don’t care, Lieutenant. I have a cousin who’s gay. It’s a non-issue with me,” Stan said. “She won’t like this.”

  “She doesn’t have to like it. I don’t let my detectives go out there alone—so that’s a non-issue.”

  “Well, I’ll go find her and tell her,” Stan said, not looking forward to the meeting.

  “She’ll be—”

  “I know. She’s down at the gym. I understand she goes there to let off steam. I only hope she doesn’t kick the shit out of me,” he said seriously as he walked out.

  Stan found her in the gym later that day at the punching bag. She wore small gloves as she battered away. She was good, very good. Stan was amazed at the well but not overly defined muscles that tensed and bulged all over her body as she beat the shit out of the bag. Her body was soaked with perspiration. She wore a black tank top and matching skin-tight shorts. Fuck, not one ounce of body fat, he thought. He then thanked God he was in shape himself.

  He cautiously walked up to the bag and held it. For an instant, she stopped and her violet eyes glared.

  “Go away,” she muttered breathlessly as he held onto the bag. She purposely let go with two jabs and a roundhouse kick.

  “Can’t do that, Detective.” He groaned as he held onto the swinging bag. “You know why I’m here.”

  Her expression softened, then she glared once again. “Fuck.”

  “I know you don’t like this, Grayson. I know you’d rather be alone out there, but it can’t happen.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment as they gauged each other.

  “Do you spar?”

  He grinned and nodded. “Just don’t kick me in the balls,” he said as he loosened his tie and walked to the locker room. “My wife wants two more kids.”

  He heard Grayson chuckle as he walked away.

  Stan now remembered how he held his own that day, but Grayson did indeed kick the shit out of him. He was never so tired and sore from a workout.

  He was chuckling quietly when Grayson broke him from his reverie.

  “Well, let’s wait and see what the coroner says. It looks the same as the other victim. She was killed somewhere else and dumped. If they did it here, there’d be blood all over.”

  Stan squatted next to her and agreed. “It’s dried and caked. Look at the ropes, they’re stained and dry.”

  “Trust me, Stan. She was dumped here. Did the boys make sure they got all the footprints before they trampled this beach?” she asked in frustration.

  “I did like you asked. They took everything and bagged, tagged, and pictured,” he assured her as they stood.

/>   “Go home and get some sleep,” she said tiredly. “I’m going back to look at that other case. One victim was bad enough, now we’ve got two. We’ve got ourselves a crazy fucker out there. Shit.” She ran her fingers through her hair.

  As they walked away, she glanced his way. “Um, so how are Kathy and the boys?” she asked, not looking at him.

  Stan smiled. “They’re good. Went out on the boat yesterday and had a blast. You should come sometime.”

  Grayson stopped and blinked at the unexpected gesture. She then gave a noncommittal shrug as she fished her keys out of her pocket. “Maybe that’d be okay,” she said awkwardly.

  Stan slapped her on the back and chuckled. “Get out of here. I’ll be in at nine. You should go home, too. You look like shit.” Grayson smirked as she climbed onto the black Harley. “Oh, were you busy when I called?” he asked sweetly.

  Grayson offered a cocky smile and kicked the bike to life. The roar was deafening. Stan leaned in. “You’re a slut!”

  Grayson nodded with a grin and took off.

  The precinct was quiet with only one or two detectives sitting at their desks. Grayson sat and flipped on the small light. She opened the file on the first victim: Jane Monahan, 5’ 7”, one hundred thirty pounds, twenty-six years old. No birthmarks. No scars. Born in Ireland. Lived in Chicago for five years.

  Grayson looked at the photos. Though hard to tell, the young woman was probably very attractive. She looked at several pictures of the markings the murderer carved under her left breast. Grayson stared at them. “Why do these look familiar?”

  The markings meant something. They were put there for a reason, but why cut into the skin? Her tired mind tried to focus. For the past three weeks, she had thought of nothing else. She even attended the funeral of the victim, hoping to get some connection, some feeling. It was a small gathering. Ms. Monahan was a bit of a recluse from what Grayson could find out.

  She worked at the Chicago Library in the Research Department. Had no boyfriends to speak of and did not frequent any eating or drinking establishments. When Grayson and Stan searched her loft apartment, they found nothing out of the ordinary. The woman was, however, a collector of Irish pagan artifacts. She remembered how Stan laughed at the small statue of a pagan god as he picked it up. She also had various oil paintings artfully decorating her walls. The apartment had the air of an intellectual about it, Grayson thought.