by Nancy Bush
Bibi drove directly home. She punched the button on her remote for the garage door and drove inside. Not that long ago she’d parked in the driveway, but someone had cleared out the garage—probably her husband—and now Bibi had started pulling inside. The change had given Thad an idea.
He parked across the street in front of what he knew was an empty house and ran lightly up her drive and straight into her garage as she was still getting out of her car, white bag in hand. She blinked at him in surprise. “What? Who are you?”
“Chas.”
Bibi’s lips parted and her eyes widened. “Chas?” He saw that she knew the name. Rayne had told. It infuriated him and he looked into her frightened face and suddenly wanted her. Scraggly red-dyed hair and all. He went right up to her and punched her in the nose, hard. Blood gushed and she cried out, staggered, and went down hard. He leaned into the car and hit the remote again, bringing the garage door down again. Someone could have seen, he supposed, but he was too amped to care right now.
She was moaning on the ground, writhing a little. He’d really clocked her.
He thought of dragging her into the house, tearing off her clothes, shoving into her. She was like Rayne, waiting for it. He wished he could have wooed her, made her beg for him, but there was no time. And he’d been so furious with Rayne, and her, that he’d just hit her.
She was trying to get up, and he jumped on her prone body, his hands ripping at her blouse as he cooed, “It’s all right, sweetheart.”
She reached up and dug her nails in his face, driving a gouge through the skin by his ear.
What—wha—what?
Shit!
He punched her again. And again. Blinded by rage. He didn’t know how many times he hit her but his hand hurt and he worried he’d broken a small bone in his fist, the one most likely to snap from a bare-knuckle fight. His skin was split from the force, his blood mixed with hers.
Out of breath, he rolled off her and stared at the ceiling of the garage. One of those fake owls stared down at him from the rafters. It gave him a bad feeling inside.
He turned to look at Bibi’s bloodied face. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
“I’m sorry,” he told her.
She gurgled out a response. He thought she said, “It’s okay.” Then he realized it was her last breath. He’d actually killed her? Beaten her to death? No!
He stared at her for a while, waiting for her to breathe . . . but she didn’t. He got to his feet. The door to the car was still open and repeatedly dinging. He hadn’t noticed till now. He reached in and grabbed her purse, still on the passenger seat, then shut the door. His hand ached and was covered in Bibi’s blood. There was blood sprayed on his shirt as well. The Styrofoam container that held the burger and maybe some fries had fallen out of its bag to the footwell. No worrying about recyclable containers for Goldie Burger, the thought as he grabbed up the container and put it back in the bag. His blood smeared on the bag. He snagged her purse and backed out of the car.
His blood everywhere. He could feel the drip from the side of his face.
Fuck.
Using one of Goldie Burger’s napkins, he turned the knob on the man-door that led to the side yard. Useless effort. His DNA was everywhere.
He stood for a moment, heart pounding, head feeling like it was squeezed in a vise. He was screened from the front road by an overgrown arborvitae hedge. After a moment he moved along the side of the garage and peered out toward the road. The night was quiet. No one lived in the house across the street and there were no lights on there. They had some motion lights but Thad had figured out how to stay out of their range in his earlier forays down Bibi’s street. There was a yard on one side of the house and an empty lot on the other, which was the corner to the main street.
He wasn’t supposed to kill her . . . he wasn’t supposed to in this way. That had been foolish, and he’d learned not to do anything foolish . . . except when his blood was up, like tonight. He’d wanted to find a way to take her out that could be construed as an accident, like Rayne’s death. He’d just gotten too amped.
He ground his teeth. He couldn’t leave her to be found. His DNA was under her fingernails, his blood at the scene.
He went back inside the garage, thought a moment. He swiped at the drip of blood beside his ear. Damn her. Damn her!
Wrapping his arms around her he pulled her from the garage floor and back into the car, stuffing her into the driver’s seat. The keys were on the garage floor. He snatched them up, switched on the engine, and let it run. Carbon monoxide was odorless and colorless and lighter than air and could be explosively ignited.
He stripped off his jacket and shirt, mixed with her blood and his, and went into the house, straight into the kitchen. A roll of paper towels sat on the counter and he ripped off a sheet, using it to open drawer after drawer, slamming them shut again until he found the junk drawer. Right inside was a Bic lighter. Exactly what he was looking for. He pulled it out, then glanced wildly around the room. His gaze fell on a six-inch-wide decorative candle with three wicks on the kitchen table. He grabbed it up and slipped back into the garage, holding his breath. Setting the candle by the main door, he swept up his jacket and shirt and backed out of the garage through the main door. He would have more than enough time to get out before the CO filled the room and ignited, burning all the evidence.
He closed the door almost all the way, then leaned in with the lighter, snapped it on and touched the flame to the three wicks, then pulled the door shut and scurried behind the arborvitae. He calculated that he had enough time, maybe a lot of time, before the place blew, if it blew, he hoped it blew, but he didn’t want to chance it. He threw on his jacket and wadded up his bloody shirt and made himself move from his shelter and across the front lawn, across the road, to his vehicle. Starting the engine, he drove farther down the street, forced to turn around at the dead end. He was counting down in his head as he turned back, darting a look at the garage as he drove away.
How many people had cameras? How many would be able to recognize the Caddy? He’d removed his front license plate and obscured the back one with mud. That plate was stolen, so if seen, it wouldn’t register back to the old lady. Didn’t matter. After this he would have to retire the vehicle. It was too memorable.
He drove toward downtown River Glen, half expecting a big kaboom, but nothing happened. He knew he should head home, hide the Caddy, but he wanted to know when it happened.
He pulled into the lot of a longtime diner that had shuttered for a while but had reopened under new ownership. It had a healthy clientele and he tucked in between a Tahoe and a Toyota minivan, both vehicles looking as well used as the Caddy.
He was about five blocks from the fire department, which was located on the far end of town, away from the central treelined square that marked River Glen’s center.
He sat for a good forty minutes before he heard a distant whump and then a minute or two later the sirens, growing loud as the fire engines burst onto the road. He’d sunk down behind the wheel and could see the flashing white and red reflection between the buildings as the vehicles raced by.
He was shaking and grinning. More than anything he wanted to cruise by the fire. More than anything he wanted to see the glorious destruction with his own eyes.
More than anything he knew he had to go home.
He battled with himself, but reason won. Swearing all the way, he drove out of town to his home, his lair, his safe house.
He hoped any DNA . . . any sign that he’d even been there . . . was destroyed by the fire. If he was lucky, the husband would be blamed. Or maybe suicide. Why not? She was terribly depressed. A lot of people chose carbon monoxide as a way.
Not so many fire, though.
That thought made him grimace. He’d been experiencing a pleasant hard-on. Killing someone was better than sex, far better. He’d felt it after Rayne and he felt it now. A hot thrill that burned through him. He would have liked to think the poli
ce could choose suicide, but homicide by her husband was fine. He just couldn’t have his own DNA trip him up and send him to prison.
Thaddeus Charles Jenkins’s face froze into a rictus smile. That was never going to happen. Never.
CHAPTER NINE
Taft was on the phone with Mangella when he got beeped in by Mackenzie. He’d been wrapping up anyway. Basically the call was a fishing expedition on Mangella’s part. Something really wrong was going on with the man. Something he was afraid Taft was going to learn. The separation of their working relationship was imminent, it was clear. Mitch was into something he didn’t want Taft to know about. He was keeping secrets for unknown reasons. Taft had been walking a tightrope with the man already and that tightrope was growing shakier and shakier and Mangella was thrumming it.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said to Mangella on Mac’s second beep.
He grunted a response and Taft clicked over.
“Taft,” he answered.
She didn’t waste words. “Bibi Engstrom’s garage went up in flames tonight. Detective Haynes called me. They found her body inside.”
“Whoa.” He checked his phone. Almost ten p.m. “What time?”
“Um . . . earlier. Dinnertime, I think. There was an explosion and the fire department doused the flames . . . they found Bibi’s body still in her car.”
He heard the stress in her voice. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Thank you . . . it’s okay.”
Denial. She sounded stressed. “Haynes called you pretty fast.”
“I told you I talked to him about Bibi asking me to look into Rayne’s death. It makes sense I would be a first call. I’d do the same if the situation were reversed. I’m headed to the station now to talk to them.”
“Not without a lawyer.”
“Taft, I don’t need a lawyer! I just want to know what happened. This isn’t coincidence. Something’s rotten in River Glen and I mean to find out what it is.”
“Wait till tomorrow. You know how they are. They’ll put you in the hot seat, make you feel guilty for something you had nothing to do with.”
“You’re projecting. That’s not how I feel.”
“Laughlin, listen—”
“I called you because we’re working together. But I can take care of myself and there’s a case now. Something’s going on with first Rayne, now Bibi. They’re connected, I just don’t know how. One of Rayne’s exes, maybe? I don’t know. But I’m sure as hell going to find out.”
“Tomorrow,” he insisted, his voice firm. “It can wait till tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Taft. I’m doing it my way.”
And she hung up.
Shit.
He glanced down. Plaid was looking at him a bit worriedly, but then that was the fawn pug’s perpetual appearance. Tommy had decided to extend his trip to Vegas and had asked if Taft would be able to keep the dogs awhile. Taft had agreed and his older neighbor had gone dark. It had been almost a week since he’d left, however, and Taft was starting to feel like the forgotten sitter.
“You know the Dr. Seuss book Horton Hatches the Egg?” he asked the pugs as Blackie joined his brother and they both looked expectantly at Taft. “Horton is left sitting on the egg while Mayzie, the lazy bird, heads to Palm Beach.” They cocked their heads in unison at his voice, which made him smile.
“I’m going out,” he told them. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Completely misinterpreting, they both jumped up on the couch and circled around for a good, long nap.
“I didn’t say do what I—” He cut himself off as he shrugged into his jacket. If Laughlin was facing the police, he was going to be with her. He let the pugs be, aware that he was losing the battle against their never-ending shedding on the furniture.
* * *
The River Glen PD hadn’t asked Mac to come in. She’d told them she was coming down as soon as Detective Haynes alerted her to the fire and Bibi Engstrom’s death. She wanted to be front and center on this. Full transparency. Because the investigation was in its infancy when Detective Haynes had called her, the police had barely had time to deliver the news of Bibi’s death to her husband, Hank Engstrom. She appreciated the heads-up, but knew it was also for their investigative benefit, as they were aware of her connection with Bibi.
Mac wasn’t worried about what the department would think of her involvement. She knew these guys. Knew them well. She’d insisted on coming down tonight because she needed information. She was boggled, upset, out of kilter. Bibi was dead? How? Why? It didn’t seem possible. Taft wanted her to stay away, but he was only looking at things from his own perspective and that didn’t apply to her.
Haynes had been at the site, but had told her he was returning to the station, so she drove straight there. It took her about twenty minutes from her mother’s house until she hurried through the front door of the department and saw the night receptionist behind the thick plastic screen. The River Glen PD had limited administrative staff throughout the night, and Mac could count on one hand the few times that an evening actually exploded with people, miscreants and victims of crimes and their families, filling up the waiting room and/or jail cells.
As she entered, all was quiet. Haynes would be in the squad room. He might be off his shift, but she knew from experience that he paid only cursory attention to the clock when he was on a case. Bennihof had squawked about it, but since Haynes wasn’t one to suck up all the overtime allotment even if he was working, not a lot further was said.
“Hi, Colleen. Detective Haynes is expecting me.”
Colleen Dennison smiled at her through the plexiglass. “Good to see you, Officer Mac. This about the deadly garage fire?”
“You got it. Good to see you, too.”
“Go on in.” She pressed the buzzer and Mac grabbed the door handle and swung it outward, passing into the inner sanctum. She took two steps, then stopped and looked back at Colleen, now only separated by a short counter.
“The Battle-axe here tonight?” asked Mac.
Colleen jerked her head to the closed door on her right and directly opposite Mac. “Right in there.”
“Can you tell her I’d like to talk to her before I leave?”
“I’ll pass it along.”
Officer Mac . . . No longer, but habits died hard.
Mackenzie hadn’t been within the secured doors of the department since she’d left and it felt a bit strange heading inside, almost as if she were returning to work. She found Cooper Haynes standing beside his desk . . . and Ricky Richards was right there with him.
“Hi, Mackenzie,” greeted Cooper. He was rumpled and haggard and smelled of dank smoke. It had been a long night already.
“Thanks for calling me.”
“You’re all over the place, aren’t you?” Ricky said. A streak of grime ran down the side of his face.
“Call it what you will,” she said.
Cooper started right in, ignoring the sniping. He told her how they’d gotten in to look around the garage in the dripping aftermath of the fire department’s hoses. The body had been taken away by the medical examiner, and Bibi’s husband was at Glen Gen’s morgue, which was situated in the hospital’s basement. “The crime techs are going over the scene,” Cooper wound up. “We’ve checked with some of the neighbors. So far nothing, but there are some security cameras.”
“We should be interviewing him here right now,” snapped Ricky.
Interviewing, or interrogating? It didn’t take a crystal ball to see where Richards stood on what kind of scene they’d just witnessed. His aggressive tone said it all. The mystery was how he’d hooked up with Haynes again. Her heart stuttered when she considered maybe he was being considered for detective.
“Do you have a problem with me?” Mac confronted him. She was tired of her ex-partner’s needling.
He spread his hands and shrugged. Haynes shot him a look, then said to Mac again, “We could talk in the morning.”
“We cou
ld do that,” she agreed tightly. “But I’m here now.” She shook her head. “I was just talking to Bibi about Rayne Sealy. Two deaths so close together . . . Any chance this was an accident?”
Ricky snorted and Haynes said, “We’ve got a long road ahead before we have any answers.”
“Foul play,” said Mac.
“I’m remembering that you quit the department,” said Ricky.
She spread her hands. “Bibi Engstrom asked me to look into Rayne’s disappearance and subsequent death, and now Bibi’s gone, too.”
“We don’t have any evidence of homicide,” said Haynes. She heard the “yet” that he didn’t utter. “Forensics’ll let us know what they find.”
“Why do you think it’s homicide?” Ricky demanded.
“I didn’t say it was. It’s just the timing. I know her marriage was unhappy. She wasn’t shy about talking about it. But it’s only been a few weeks . . . days, really, since Rayne’s accident, if that’s what it was. I’d like more answers.”
Ricky started to say something, but Haynes cut in, “Tell me again what kind of investigation you were working on for Bibi.”
Ricky heaved a huge sigh, in that “here we go again” way he had when he was bored with a subject. Mac ignored him and reiterated how she’d met Bibi at Portland State and then run into her again at the Coffee Club. How Bibi had requested she search for Rayne, ignoring Mac’s assertion that she was no longer part of the police force. How she’d reluctantly taken on the job, and how Bibi believed that Rayne’s ex, Seth Keppler, was somehow involved, and how Mac’s subsequent tailing of Seth and his current partner, Patti Warner, hadn’t turned up anything suspicious. She purposely left out running into Taft and his own interest in Seth. She finished with, “I didn’t talk to Bibi about much of anything else. Like I said, she mentioned the shape of her marriage some, but most of our conversation was about Rayne.”