“You looking for this?” Massey held up a small envelope decorated around the edges with scrolls of gold. “I thought I’d hang on to it for you. You know, so it wouldn’t get lost.”

Being the only female detective assigned to homicide meant putting up with the usual amount of gender bias and relentless ribbing, and Sam had learned long ago not to make anything an issue unless absolutely necessary.

“So who sent them?”

“No name or sig, just a sweet little message the florist typed in.” Massey grinned and pulled out the card to read it out loud. “‘You make my heart burn.’” He chuckled. “Sounds like the guy needs some antacid.”

Sam tucked a stack of case files under her arm, walked over, and took the card from him. Lucan generally saved his sweet nothings for when he could deliver them in person, but after the minor standoff earlier maybe he’d thought she needed a reminder.

“Nice.” She shoved the card in her jacket. “Thanks for taking care of it. Since you’re so interested in being my personal assistant, you can type these up.” She dropped the files in front of him.

His smirk disappeared. “Why should I do your grunt work?”

“Because I’m the senior ranking detective in this department, and I just pulled a major case. That makes you my grunt.” She smiled. “I’ll expect them back by the end of your shift. Tonight.”

“Yeah.” He eyed the stack. “Thanks. A lot.”

“My pleasure.” She headed for the captain’s office.

Captain Ernesto Garcia was on the phone but gestured for Sam to come in as soon as he saw her. She closed the door and sat down in the visitor’s chair.

He ended the call and jotted down some notes before he regarded her. “That was Morales over at ATF. They had Coburn under surveillance for a few months last year, but were never able to put together a case. The man was very careful.”

“Not tonight.” She related the facts she had so far, and added, “From the tossed office and the excessive torture of the vic, the perp wanted more than diamonds. I don’t think he got it, either.”

He gave her a narrow look. “You didn’t read the blood.”

“I wanted to, but the techs weren’t finished.” She often used her psychic ability to see the last moments of a victim’s life through contact with his or her blood, but not in front of others. “I’ll stop by the morgue later.”

“That’s not necessary.” Garcia leaned forward. “We already know the last moments of this man’s life were horrendous. Don’t subject yourself to that.”

Her boss had never before balked at using her talent to help solve a case. “I’ve seen plenty worse, Captain, and I’m not squeamish.”

“I never implied that you were.” Garcia put on his poker face. “I’m thinking of your welfare.”

Suddenly Sam understood why the techs had been dragging their feet collecting evidence. “Lucan told you to keep me from reading the vic, so you had the techs stay until I left.” When he said nothing, her temper boiled over. “We agreed that when I’m on the job, I’m a cop, and I work for you. Not him.”

“Are you finished?” When she nodded, Garcia said, “You know I have to do what the man says, especially when you’re involved. So have this conversation with him, because if you get hurt, he won’t fire me or transfer me. He’ll splatter me over the nearest flat surface.”

Sam sank back down in the chair. “Sorry, Captain.”

“For the record, I don’t agree with him,” Garcia assured her. “Your talent has helped close dozens of cases, and it’s never caused you any harm, either. But he was adamant.”

“All right. I agree not to use my talent on this vic,” she told Garcia, giving him a direct look. “When I go to the morgue, it’ll just be to get the autopsy results from Tenderson. And that’s exactly what you should tell anyone who asks.”

He understood. “Be careful, my lady.”

As Sam passed her desk on the way out, she scooped up the vase of roses and dropped it in the big trash can by the coffee machine.

From headquarters Sam drove to the county morgue, where she found Evan Tenderson still working on Coburn’s remains. After pulling on a protective shroud, she joined him at the dissection table, and glanced at a particularly vile-smelling collection of fish heads, tails, and innards occupying one of the hanging scales. “I hope that’s not your dinner.”

“It was his. Two pounds of fish parts.” He began suturing together the Y-incision. “Someone force-fed it to him. If he hadn’t bled out so quickly, he might have choked to death.”

She glanced at the rack of vials next to the table. “Were you able to recover any blood for toxicology?”

“Nothing left in the body. I’ll use whatever the techs mopped up from the scene.” He nodded at the gaping throat wound. “There’s a three-inch section of skin and tissue missing from around the carotid. Whoever did him might have taken it as a trophy.”

Or to cover up the first wound, which Sam now guessed had been two puncture marks. “Anything else in the wounds on his back?”

“I found salt residue on his clothing. He was hosed down with seawater, probably to intensify the torture, or maybe revive him when he passed out.” He tied off the suture thread between the collarbones.

She released enough of her scent to make his eyes glaze over. “Reserve a vial of the victim’s blood for me. Call me when it’s ready for pickup.”

He nodded and repeated in a monotone an abbreviated echo of her command. “Reserve. Vial. Call.”

On her way out of the morgue Sam mentally reviewed what Tenderson had told her. The Brethren liked to torture humans almost as much as they did the Kyn, but they always got rid of the bodies. Coburn’s murder, vicious as it was, had been very public, as if the killer wanted to make an example of the victim. If the jeweler had been selling arms, his clientele could be anyone from revolutionaries to cartel bosses.

She smelled Lucan before she saw him leaning against the hood of her car, and glanced at her watch.

“It’s one twenty a.m.,” he informed her.

“So it is.” She noted the scowl on his face, and recalled her promise. “You didn’t have to come after me for being late. I’ve got a case—”

“You forever have a case, Samantha.” He sniffed. “Why do you come here? The place reeks of death. I’ll have to direct Burke to burn your clothes again. Perhaps I’ll have him incinerate the entire contents of your wardrobe.”

“The garrison should enjoy that.” He sounded seriously annoyed, borderline angry, which posed a direct threat to windows of the morgue, the surrounding buildings, and every car in the parking lot. “If I say that I’m sorry for losing track of time, do I get to keep my clothes?”

His expression thawed a few degrees. “You wouldn’t mean it.”

She thought of the horror that had been Noel Coburn. “Tonight I would.”

Lucan extended a gloved hand. “Come here.” When she reached him, he folded her into his arms. “Now I shall have to burn my clothes,” he grumbled against the top of her head. “And have the Ferrari sterilized.”

She glanced past him at his gleaming red sports car, which he loved almost as much as sex. “I’ll drive back in the Porsche.”

“I think not.” He plucked the keys from her hand and pocketed them. “Burke can collect it in the morning.”

She drew back a little. “Why are you in such a rush to get me back to the den of iniquity?”

“Why are you reluctant to return?” he countered. “Have I given you cause?” When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “Samantha, my patience does have very well-defined limits with which you are intimately acquainted. Now tell me what is the matter before windshields commence exploding.”

Confronting him about interfering in her investigation might result in the same, so she tabled that for now. “Nothing is wrong, really. The flowers were beautiful, and very romantic, but having them delivered to the squad room was a bit over-the-top.”

“Flowers.” He frowned.

“If I were a secretary, I’d love to find four dozen roses in a crystal vase sitting on my desk every day,” she assured him as she watched his face. “But I’m a cop, and it’s not a cop thing, and you have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Not in the slightest,” he agreed. “Someone using my name sent roses to your work?”

“There was no name on the card,” she admitted, “just a note.”

He nodded. “What color were they?”

“The roses? Red, I guess. Look, it was probably Burke,” she lied. “Why don’t we head back to the club?”

“We will,” he said pleasantly, “as soon as you tell me what the note said.”

“It said ‘Have a nice day.’” She heard her windshield crack, and winced. “Fine. Whoever sent them thinks I make their heart burn. So I guess I have a new secret admirer.”

His eyes turned to chrome. “Not for long.” He took out his mobile and pressed one number before lifting it to his ear. “Garcia? Roses were delivered to my sygkenis at the station. Contact the florist; I want the name and address of the man who paid for them. Yes. By sunset.” He switched off the phone and gazed down at her. “You will leave this to me.”

“Dwyer is dead.” Saying the name of the man who had harassed her, assaulted her, stalked her, and ultimately ended her human life made her feel sick. But Lucan had endured worse at the hands of a former friend turned Brethren agent. “So is Leigh. Don’t let the past play games with your head.”

“Such sweet concern.” Lucan put his hands on her waist and lifted her up to his eye level. “I daresay you do love me.”