[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
eased toward the half-open door to Willie's apartment.
The smell of blood hit him before he'd even made it inside. Oh, fuck! He was too late! Keeping a
low profile, he checked the living area and the bedroom, carefully avoiding looking at the bed,
then the dining area -- the only places he was familiar with. It was then that he heard it: a
gurgling, gasping sound that made his blood run cold. He carefully eased into a doorway he
hadn't noticed on his earlier visit. Bloody footprints led away from the central desk, which sat in
a pool of blood. Noah eyed it warily, slowly easing around it to find Billy lying underneath.
"Oh, Billy," Noah moaned, lowering the gun. "What did they do to you?"
"Noah?"
His name was so softly spoken that he might have imagined it, and Noah leaned cautiously over
the body, only to find those dark eyes that he knew so well looking up at him, full of pain.
Noah dropped to his knees on the bloody carpet. "Fucking hell, Billy! What happened?"
Those full, sensuous lips slid back over bared, bloody teeth. The man Noah'd once loved more
than life itself clenched his jaw and hissed, "Little weasel, Trent... underestimated..."
"Shh... Don't try to talk," Noah said, eyes filling with tears as he counted the bullet holes riddling
his former lover's body. He reached for his phone and called emergency services, both for Billy
and the unconscious man downstairs. The sirens he'd heard probably just meant cops, not
paramedics. He spared no thoughts for the two dead gunmen. Buzzards could have them for all
he cared.
The Angel of 13th Street - 115
"No time," Billy moaned, "...already dead."
"Why? Why didn't you come with me?" Noah asked, heart breaking once more over this
beautiful man.
Billy coughed, wincing, then looked up at Noah. He panted out the words he'd said so often,
"...where... belong, Noe..."
"No, you aren't. We could have gone away together, just like we said we would."
Despite his injuries, Billy smiled, eyes already beginning to dim. "Only... one regret," he said,
voice so soft Noah had to bend closer to hear him.
"What's that?"
"Remember... said... didn't love you?"
How could he forget the words that had torn his heart out all those years ago? "Yes," he replied.
Fat tears dripped from his cheeks, the spatters washing the blood from Billy's face where they hit.
A bloody, trembling hand reached up, cupping Noah's cheek. "Lied," Billy whispered.
Noah clutched that hand to his face, refusing to let go, even though Billy just had. He stared
down into the peacefully smiling face of the small-town boy from Georgia. Blessed with the dark
good looks of an Italian grandmother, Billy had left home to seek his fame in the city, only to
have his dreams crushed beneath the harsh heel of reality.
A glint of silver caught Noah's eye, and he peeled back the collar of Billy's blood-soaked silk
shirt. There, nestled against the man's tattooed, badly scarred chest, lay a pendant -- half of a
Mizpah coin.
That's how the police found him, kneeling in a pool of blood in a luxurious apartment high above
the festive Christmas lights of the city.
When the paramedics arrived, William Joseph Cordell was pronounced dead.
The Angel of 13th Street - 116
Chapter Fourteen
Noah was mentally and physically exhausted. To say it had been a long day was a gross
understatement. As bad as the day had been, amazingly enough, after leaving Willie's, it got
worse. At least the paramedics had taken the time to properly patch his arm, even if his blood-
soaked clothes made it appear as if he'd been the one who'd been shot today. Now he sat in an
interrogation room, answering the same questions over and over. No charges had been filed yet;
he was just listed as someone of interest. It was only a matter of time. Willie had died in his arms,
leaving a bloody handprint on Noah's face. And Noah had, in fact, shot and probably killed a
man. Right now he was too numb to properly process that fact. Later, there'd be hell to pay from
his conscious, if not the judicial system. The officers escorting him might as well have said,
"Dead man walking" when they brought him in.
After a litany of the same old questions, rephrased to appear different, the sergeant finally asked
a new one. "Why did you kill Mr. Cordell, Noah?"
Ah, the gloves were coming off, and he was being accused outright. It wasn't like he hadn't seen
it coming. The only thing that did surprise him was that no mention had yet been made of the
man he had actually killed, other than a reference to the two shooters as "accomplices." If he was
being accused of Willie's murder, they'd now be considered his accomplices. The fact that they'd
tried to murder him, too, seemed irrelevant. Or maybe the cops were stalling for time while
forensics did their thing. Noah had been watching the clock, and time was running out. By law,
either charges had to be brought, or they had to let him go. Amazing the things that life as a
prostitute had taught him about the law.
The sergeant paused the repetitious questioning long enough to look down at the cell phone
vibrating loudly against his belt. He muttered, "Excuse me," and then left the room. Noah knew
he was being watched and sat quietly, waiting for the officer to return and either formally press
charges or let him go home. His vote was for home.
Finally, the sergeant re-entered the room, flanked by two more uniformed officers. "Noah
Everett," he said, "You are under arrest for Assault with Intent to Kill. You have the right to
remain silent..."
Assault, not murder? It seemed that the men in blue hadn't forgotten about the gunman after all,
or that the bullets from the gun Noah had been found holding matched the one in the gunman's
body. Did this mean the man was still alive?
Before he had a chance to ask, the sergeant opened a folder and took out a stack of photographs,
thirteen in all, and placed them face up on the table. "Each of these men are listed as missing
persons. All were last seen with someone who fits your description. This one," the sergeant
tapped a fingertip against the image of Mark, "was seen getting into a truck that matches the one
registered to you. What do you know about these men?"
Noah looked over the photos, already knowing what he'd see. There before him were the pictures
of thirteen young men he'd saved from the streets. Most telling, the photo of Mark was identical
The Angel of 13th Street - 117
to the one back at his house that would probably be found when the police searched it, which
they no doubt would.
It appeared that Willie had set him up. But Willie was dead. Then it hit him -- not Willie, but
someone who had access to the same files. Shit! That little bastard! Trent now knew he was still [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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eased toward the half-open door to Willie's apartment.
The smell of blood hit him before he'd even made it inside. Oh, fuck! He was too late! Keeping a
low profile, he checked the living area and the bedroom, carefully avoiding looking at the bed,
then the dining area -- the only places he was familiar with. It was then that he heard it: a
gurgling, gasping sound that made his blood run cold. He carefully eased into a doorway he
hadn't noticed on his earlier visit. Bloody footprints led away from the central desk, which sat in
a pool of blood. Noah eyed it warily, slowly easing around it to find Billy lying underneath.
"Oh, Billy," Noah moaned, lowering the gun. "What did they do to you?"
"Noah?"
His name was so softly spoken that he might have imagined it, and Noah leaned cautiously over
the body, only to find those dark eyes that he knew so well looking up at him, full of pain.
Noah dropped to his knees on the bloody carpet. "Fucking hell, Billy! What happened?"
Those full, sensuous lips slid back over bared, bloody teeth. The man Noah'd once loved more
than life itself clenched his jaw and hissed, "Little weasel, Trent... underestimated..."
"Shh... Don't try to talk," Noah said, eyes filling with tears as he counted the bullet holes riddling
his former lover's body. He reached for his phone and called emergency services, both for Billy
and the unconscious man downstairs. The sirens he'd heard probably just meant cops, not
paramedics. He spared no thoughts for the two dead gunmen. Buzzards could have them for all
he cared.
The Angel of 13th Street - 115
"No time," Billy moaned, "...already dead."
"Why? Why didn't you come with me?" Noah asked, heart breaking once more over this
beautiful man.
Billy coughed, wincing, then looked up at Noah. He panted out the words he'd said so often,
"...where... belong, Noe..."
"No, you aren't. We could have gone away together, just like we said we would."
Despite his injuries, Billy smiled, eyes already beginning to dim. "Only... one regret," he said,
voice so soft Noah had to bend closer to hear him.
"What's that?"
"Remember... said... didn't love you?"
How could he forget the words that had torn his heart out all those years ago? "Yes," he replied.
Fat tears dripped from his cheeks, the spatters washing the blood from Billy's face where they hit.
A bloody, trembling hand reached up, cupping Noah's cheek. "Lied," Billy whispered.
Noah clutched that hand to his face, refusing to let go, even though Billy just had. He stared
down into the peacefully smiling face of the small-town boy from Georgia. Blessed with the dark
good looks of an Italian grandmother, Billy had left home to seek his fame in the city, only to
have his dreams crushed beneath the harsh heel of reality.
A glint of silver caught Noah's eye, and he peeled back the collar of Billy's blood-soaked silk
shirt. There, nestled against the man's tattooed, badly scarred chest, lay a pendant -- half of a
Mizpah coin.
That's how the police found him, kneeling in a pool of blood in a luxurious apartment high above
the festive Christmas lights of the city.
When the paramedics arrived, William Joseph Cordell was pronounced dead.
The Angel of 13th Street - 116
Chapter Fourteen
Noah was mentally and physically exhausted. To say it had been a long day was a gross
understatement. As bad as the day had been, amazingly enough, after leaving Willie's, it got
worse. At least the paramedics had taken the time to properly patch his arm, even if his blood-
soaked clothes made it appear as if he'd been the one who'd been shot today. Now he sat in an
interrogation room, answering the same questions over and over. No charges had been filed yet;
he was just listed as someone of interest. It was only a matter of time. Willie had died in his arms,
leaving a bloody handprint on Noah's face. And Noah had, in fact, shot and probably killed a
man. Right now he was too numb to properly process that fact. Later, there'd be hell to pay from
his conscious, if not the judicial system. The officers escorting him might as well have said,
"Dead man walking" when they brought him in.
After a litany of the same old questions, rephrased to appear different, the sergeant finally asked
a new one. "Why did you kill Mr. Cordell, Noah?"
Ah, the gloves were coming off, and he was being accused outright. It wasn't like he hadn't seen
it coming. The only thing that did surprise him was that no mention had yet been made of the
man he had actually killed, other than a reference to the two shooters as "accomplices." If he was
being accused of Willie's murder, they'd now be considered his accomplices. The fact that they'd
tried to murder him, too, seemed irrelevant. Or maybe the cops were stalling for time while
forensics did their thing. Noah had been watching the clock, and time was running out. By law,
either charges had to be brought, or they had to let him go. Amazing the things that life as a
prostitute had taught him about the law.
The sergeant paused the repetitious questioning long enough to look down at the cell phone
vibrating loudly against his belt. He muttered, "Excuse me," and then left the room. Noah knew
he was being watched and sat quietly, waiting for the officer to return and either formally press
charges or let him go home. His vote was for home.
Finally, the sergeant re-entered the room, flanked by two more uniformed officers. "Noah
Everett," he said, "You are under arrest for Assault with Intent to Kill. You have the right to
remain silent..."
Assault, not murder? It seemed that the men in blue hadn't forgotten about the gunman after all,
or that the bullets from the gun Noah had been found holding matched the one in the gunman's
body. Did this mean the man was still alive?
Before he had a chance to ask, the sergeant opened a folder and took out a stack of photographs,
thirteen in all, and placed them face up on the table. "Each of these men are listed as missing
persons. All were last seen with someone who fits your description. This one," the sergeant
tapped a fingertip against the image of Mark, "was seen getting into a truck that matches the one
registered to you. What do you know about these men?"
Noah looked over the photos, already knowing what he'd see. There before him were the pictures
of thirteen young men he'd saved from the streets. Most telling, the photo of Mark was identical
The Angel of 13th Street - 117
to the one back at his house that would probably be found when the police searched it, which
they no doubt would.
It appeared that Willie had set him up. But Willie was dead. Then it hit him -- not Willie, but
someone who had access to the same files. Shit! That little bastard! Trent now knew he was still [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]