by Nora Roberts
funeral. I have to pick something.”
“Why don’t I do that? Men never know what we want to wear.”
“I’d appreciate it. Her stuff’s in there, in the closet. You could wait on it. They haven’t . . . I mean, she’s still in there.”
“It’s okay. I’ll take care of this.”
Maybe it was surreal, to go into the bedroom of a woman she’d never met, to go through the closet while a body lay in the bed. Out of respect, Reena stepped to the bed first, looked down.
Marge Goodnight had let her hair go slate gray, and had kept it short and straight. No-nonsense then, Reena decided. Her left hand, with its wedding ring set, lay outside the covers.
She imagined Bo had sat there, held her hand while he said his good-byes.
“It’s too much for him,” she said quietly. “Picking a dress for you is just a little out of his scope. I hope you don’t mind if I handle this part.”
She opened the closet, smiled when she saw built-in shelves and cubbies. “He built these, didn’t he?” She glanced over her shoulder at Marge. “You like things organized, and he did the work. It’s a good design. I may have to hire him to do something similar for me. What about this blue suit, Marge? Dignified, but not stuffy. And this blouse, with just a little bit of lace down the placket. Pretty, but not too frilly. I think I’d have liked you.”
She found a garment bag, hung the outfit inside, and though she realized it was unnecessary, selected shoes, then underwear from the bureau.
Before she left the room, she turned to the bed again. “I’ll light a candle for you, and have my mother say a rosary. Nobody says a rosary like my mama. Safe passage, Marge.”
Reena took two hours’ personal time to attend the funeral. He hadn’t asked her to come. In fact, she thought he’d deliberately avoided asking her. She sat in the back, not surprised the Mass was so well attended. Her brief conversation with the pastor had cemented her conclusion that Margaret Goodnight had been a fixture of the church.
They’d brought flowers, as friends and neighbors do, so the church smelled of lilies and incense and candle wax. She stood and knelt, sat and spoke, the rhythm of the Mass as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. When the priest spoke of the dead, he spoke of her in personal and affectionate terms.
She’d mattered, Reena thought. She’d left her mark. And wasn’t that the point?
When Bo walked up to the pulpit to speak, she didn’t think Marge would mind if she admired the way he looked in a dark suit.
“My grandmother,” he began, “was tough. She didn’t suffer fools. She figured you should use the brains God gave you, otherwise you were just taking up space. She did a lot more than take up space. She told me that during the Depression she worked in a dime store, made a dollar a day. Had to walk two miles each way—fair weather or foul. She didn’t think it was that big a deal, she just did what she had to do.
“She told me once she thought she’d become a nun, then decided she’d rather have sex. I hope it’s okay to say that in here,” he added after a ripple of laughter. “She married my grandfather in 1939. They had what she called a two-hour honeymoon before they both had to go back to work. Apparently, they managed to make my uncle Tom in that short window. She lost a daughter at six months, and a son in Vietnam who never saw his twentieth birthday. She lost her husband, but she never lost, well, her faith. Or her independence, which was just as important to her. She taught me how to ride a two-wheeler, and to finish what I start.”
He cleared his throat. “She’s survived by her two sons, my cousin Jim and me. I’m going to miss her.”
Reena waited outside the church while people spoke to Bo before walking to their cars. It was a pretty morning, with strong sun and the smell of freshly mown grass.
She noted the two people who stayed closest to him. A man of about his age, about five-ten, trendy wire-framed glasses, good, dark suit and shoes. And a woman around thirty with short, bright red hair wearing sunglasses and a sleeveless black dress.
From what he’d told her, they couldn’t be blood kin. But she recognized family when she saw it.
He broke away, walked to Reena. “Thanks for coming. I haven’t had much chance to talk to you, to thank you for everything.”
“It’s all right. I’m sorry I can’t go to the cemetery. I have to get back. It was a lovely service, Bo. You did just right.”
“Scary.” He put sunglasses over his tired eyes. “I haven’t had to talk in front of so many people since the nightmare of public speaking in high school.”
“Well, you aced it.”
“Glad it’s done.” He looked over, and his jaw tightened. “I’ve got to ride out with my father.” He nodded toward a man in a black suit. His black hair had just a touch of silver at the temples, like gleaming wings. Tanned and fit, she thought. And impatient.
“We don’t seem to have anything to say to each other. How does that happen?”
“I don’t know, but it does.” She touched her lips to each of his cheeks in turn. “Take care.”
At ten on a rainy morning in June that turned the air to steam, Reena stood over the partially destroyed body of a twenty-three-year-old woman. What was left of her was on the nasty carpet in a nasty room in a hotel where “fleabag” would have been a generous adjective.
Her name was De Wanna Johnson, according to the driver’s license in the vinyl purse found under the bed—and the desk clerk’s statement.
As her face and upper torso were all but gone, official identification would come later. She’d been wrapped in a blanket, with stuffing from the mattress strewn over and around her to act as trailers.
Reena took pictures while O’Donnell started the grid.
“So, De Wanna checks in three days ago with some guy. She pays cash for two nights. While it is possible DeWanna decided to sleep on the floor, and set her own face on fire, I scent a whiff of foul play.”
O’Donnell chewed contemplatively on his gum. “Maybe the frying pan over there covered with blood and gray matter gave you the first clue.”
“It didn’t hurt. Jesus, De Wanna, bet he did a number on you first. He had a good combustible source of fuel with the blanket and mattress stuffing, then you’ve got her body fat for the candle effect. But he screwed up. Should’ve opened a window, should have coated this carpet with flammable liquid. Not enough oxygen, not enough flame to finish the job. Hope she was dead before he lit her. Hope the ME and radiologists confirm that.”
She stepped out to go through the rest of the room, the excuse for a kitchenette. Broken dishes on the floor, what she identified as ground beef mixed with Hamburger Helper sloshed over the graying linoleum.
“Looks like she was fixing dinner when they got into it. Remains of that in the skillet along with pieces of her. He probably grabbed the pan right off the stove.”
She turned from it, gripped her hands as if gripping the handle, swung out. “Knocked her back. Blood spatter here looks consistent with that. Comes right back with a backhanded follow-through. Knocks her back again, and down. Maybe pounds on her some more before he thinks, Whoa, shit, look what I did.”
She stepped around the body. “Figures to light her up, cover up the murder. But animal fat doesn’t burn cleanly. Modest flame destroys tissues, takes her face and more, but it doesn’t bring the room temp, not a closed room, up enough to ignite the stuffing, even the bulk of the blanket he wrapped around her.”
“So we’re probably not going to be looking for a chemist.”
“Or somebody who planned ahead. Frenzy of the moment, not premeditated, from the looks of the scene.”
She moved into the bathroom. The back of the toilet was crammed with cosmetics. Hair spray, hair gel, mascara, lipsticks, blusher, eyeshadows.
Crouching down, she began to pick through the trash with her gloved hands. Moments later, she came back in holding a box.
“I think we’ve got a motive.” She held up the home pregnancy test.
The d
esk clerk’s vague description of the man who’d checked in with the victim was given a boost by the prints Reena lifted from the frying pan.
“Got him,” she told O’Donnell, and swiveled around in her chair to face his desk. “Jamal Earl Gregg, twenty-five. Got a sheet. Assault, possession with intent, malicious wounding. Did a stint in Red Onion in Virginia. Released three months ago. Got a Richmond address listed. De Wanna Johnson’s driver’s license had a Richmond address.”
“So maybe we’ll take a field trip.”
“I’ve got a current MasterCard in her name. It wasn’t in her purse, or on the scene.”
“If he took it, he’ll use it. Asshole. Let’s put out the alert. Maybe we’ll save ourselves a trip down Ninety-five.”
Reena wrote the report, did a search for known associates.
“The only tie I can find to Baltimore is an inmate on his block at Red Onion. Guy’s still inside, doing a nickel for dealing.”
“Jamal got busted for possession with intent. Maybe he came up this way looking to move in with his pal’s connections.”
“There’s no record on De Wanna Johnson. No criminal, no juvie, no arrests. But she and Gregg went to the same high school.”
O’Donnell tipped down the reading glasses he’d been forced to use. “High school sweethearts?”
“Stranger things. He gets out, scoops her up, and they’re off to Baltimore—on her dime, in her car. Must be love. I’m going to call the address listed on her license, see what I can dig out.”
“Let me update the captain,” O’Donnell said. “See if he wants us to go to Richmond on this.”
When O’Donnell came back, Reena held up a finger. “I appreciate that, Mrs. Johnson. If you hear from your daughter, or hear anything about Jamal Gregg’s whereabouts, please contact me. You have my number. Yes. Thank you.”
Reena pushed back in her chair. “High school sweethearts. In fact, so sweet, De Wanna has a five-year-old daughter. Her mother’s got the kid. Jamal and DeWanna left three days ago—over the mother’s objections. Job opportunity. She said her girl didn’t have a brain cell working when it came to that no-account, and she hopes we lock the thieving bastard up good this time, so her girl has a chance to make a decent life. I didn’t tell her the probability is high De Wanna’s already lost her chance.”
“Got one kid by her. He just gets out of prison, ready to get something going, and she tells him she’s got another cooking. He loses it, does her, lights her, takes her credit card, cash, car.”
“Works for me.”
“We’re getting cleared to drive down to Richmond. Hold on.” He picked up his ringing phone. “Arson Unit. O’Donnell. Yeah. Yeah.” He scribbled as he spoke. “Stall the authorization. We’re on our way.”
Reena was already up, grabbing her jacket. “Where?”
“Liquor store on Central.”
Reena grabbed a radio on the run, requested backup.
He was gone when they got there, and frustration had Reena standing in the rain, kicking the rear tire of the car Jamal had left sitting at the curb. She pulled out her cell phone when it sang. “Hale. Okay. Got it.” She clicked off. “Victim was six weeks pregnant. Cause of death, bludgeoning.”
“That’s fast work for the ME.”
“I sweet-talked him. He couldn’t have gone far. Even if he decided to ditch the car, he couldn’t have gone far.”
“So we look for him. Get in out of the rain.” O’Donnell slid behind the wheel again. “Got the APB out. He’s on foot. He’s pissed off he didn’t get his booze.”
“Bar. Where’s the closest bar?”
O’Donnell looked at her and grinned. “Now that’s thinking.” He turned the corner, nodded. “Let’s have a look.”
It was called Hideout. A number of patrons seemed to be doing just that, holed up with a bottle on a rainy afternoon.
Jamal was at the end of the bar, drinking boilermakers.
He was off the stool like lightning, and sprinting toward the back.
Good eye for cops, was Reena’s only thought as she ran after him. She hit the alley door three steps ahead of O’Donnell. She evaded the metal trash can Jamal heaved. O’Donnell didn’t.
“You hurt?” she called back.
“Get him. I’m right behind you.”
Jamal was fast, but so was she. When he scurried up and over the fence backing the alley, she was right behind him. “Police! Freeze!”
He was fast, she thought again, but he didn’t know Baltimore. She was faster—and she did.
The rain-drenched alley he’d run into this time dead-ended. He whirled, eyes wild, and flipped out a knife.
“Come on, bitch.”
Keeping her eyes locked on his, Reena drew her weapon. “What, are you just really stupid? Toss down the knife, Jamal, before I shoot you.”
“Ain’t got the balls.”
Now she grinned, though her palms had gone clammy and her knees wanted badly to shake. “Bet me.”
From behind her, she heard O’Donnell swear and puff, and had never heard sweeter music. “And me,” he said, bracing his weapon on the top of the fence.
“I didn’t do nothing.” Jamal dropped the knife. “I’m just having a drink.”
“Yeah, tell that to DeWanna, and the baby she was carrying.” Her heart pistoned painfully against her ribs as she moved forward. “On the ground, you bastard. Hands behind your head.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He got down, laced his hands behind his head. “You got the wrong person.”
“This next stint you do in a cage, maybe you can study up on the properties of fire. Meanwhile, Jamal Earl Gregg, you’re under arrest for suspicion of murder.” She kicked the knife away, cuffed him.
They were soaked to the skin and dripping when they heard the sirens. O’Donnell shot her a fierce grin. “Fast on your feet, Hale.”
“Yeah.”
And since it was over, she sat on the wet pavement until she got her breath back.
16
Well, it was done, Bo thought as he let himself into his house. At least he hoped to God it was done. Mostly. Lawyers, insurance, accountants, realtors. All those meetings, all that paperwork made his ears ring. Not to mention, he thought, a couple of go-rounds with his father.
Over and done, he decided, and couldn’t figure out if he was relieved or depressed.
He set a packing box beside the one he’d already brought in and dumped at the foot of the stairs. One more in the car, he mused. He could just leave it there, deal with it all later.
And he could’ve sworn he heard his grandmother’s voice, telling him to finish what he started.
“Okay, okay.” He pushed at his already dripping hair and headed back out.
A beer would be good. A beer, a hot shower, maybe some ESPN. Chill out. Decompress. Then, as he pulled the tarp up to get to the last of the boxes, Reena pulled in. He forgot all about an evening in his underwear watching the game.
“Hi.” He thought she looked a little pale and tired, but it might’ve been the rain.
“Hi back.”
She wasn’t wearing a hat either, and her hair was a riot of tawny corkscrews. “Got a minute?” he asked her. “Want to come in?”
She hesitated, then gave a little shrug. “Sure. Need a hand?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
“Haven’t seen you around much this week,” she commented.
“Work squeezed between meetings. Turns out I’m executor of my grandmother’s estate. That sounds like it’s really big and shiny. It’s not like she was rolling in it or anything. Mostly it’s just lawyers and paperwork. Thanks,” he added when she opened the door for him. “Want some wine?”
“About as much as I want to keep breathing.”
“Let me get you a towel.” He dumped the box with the others, walked down the hall and into what she knew was the half bath.
The house was nearly a twin of hers in its setup. But what he’d done set it apart. T
he trim and floors had been taken down to their natural color and varnished, and the walls were a deep, warm green that set off the honey oak. He’d suspended a mission-style light from the lofty ceiling.
The hall could have used a runner, she thought. Something old and a little threadbare and full of character. And he probably planned to refinish the table near the door where he threw his keys.