Before they left the small room, Harry's pager sounded. A few seconds later, so did Mal's. By that time, Harry had already pulled his cell phone from his suit pocket and was dialing the station.
The conversation was brief, and when Harry hit the end button he practically stormed out the door. "We have another damn body."
* * *
Mal and Harry kept their distance while the crime scene tech, Sam Wingate, finished his work. The grotesque body was sitting up in a fat blue chair that was positioned directly before the television. A favorite chair, perhaps.
Martin Blake had been a good friend of Jacob Fossett's, Mal remembered, and that was strike one. They'd suspected him of being a member of the legion, but there had never been any proof. On the end table beside the body was a framed photograph of Miranda Fossett. Strike two. In the photograph she was smiling, standing in the sun near a body of still water. She looked very little like the dead woman he'd seen in the stairwell of the Riverwatch Hotel.
Blake had dark hair, but since half of his face had been blown off it was impossible to tell if he had ever looked anything like Tyrone Power from any angle. The tattoo on the dead man's forearm, a small heart with the name Miranda beneath it, was visible from where Mal stood. Strike three, you're out. What else could they ask for?
"Suicide," Sam said without looking up from the body. "And he didn't plan to fail. Sawed-off shotgun in the mouth."
A messily scrawled note, red pen on a lined sheet of notebook paper, lay on the floor near the dead man's feet. I'm sorry.
It was all so neat and tidy, like a present wrapped up in a red ribbon and left at his feet. Mal had a vaguely uneasy feeling about this, but he couldn't ignore the facts before his eyes.
"Why did he kill himself?" he asked, as much to himself as to Harry.
"Guilt?" Harry suggested, nodding to the note on the floor.
It didn't feel right. "After he killed four people?" And tried to kill Frannie. "Why now? Let's say we were right from the beginning, and this is a simple case of a rejected boyfriend taking his revenge on an unfaithful woman. If he was going to kill himself, why not right after he killed Miranda? Why bother to cover everything up, getting rid of any possible witnesses, and then commit suicide?"
"Maybe he knew we were getting close." Harry suggested.
"How?" Mal studied the room they stood in. Blake's apartment was small, but it was neat and clean. There were plants in the windowsill, and Miranda's photograph wasn't the only one in the room. There were pictures of an older couple, of small children and even one of a black lab. It was all very homey, for a man who was capable of multiple murder. "A handful of people knew we'd found the key."
"It only takes one to spring a leak."
Harry was well on his way to being satisfied, but Mal didn't quite buy it. It was too neat.
"You just don't want this to be over," Harry suggested as they worked their way through the house, examining everything with cotton-gloved hands, cataloguing anything that might be of interest to the case. "If this is over, then that means you have to let Frannie go."
"Not necessarily," Mal grumbled. He looked up to see that Harry was grinning widely.
"You're going to take my advice and marry her." Harry nodded his gray head slowly, pleased with himself.
"I didn't say that," Mal said as he opened the refrigerator door. "There's a full gallon of milk in here. Why would he buy a gallon of milk if he was planning to blow his head off?"
"You ask too many questions."
It was late afternoon before they left the apartment, and they had all the evidence they needed. The car in the garage had a crumpled fender and a broken headlight. They were certain the small amount of dried blood would match their elderly hit-and-run victim. There were mechanical parts that might be used in the building of a bomb, and a number of knives. One of them would probably match the wound in Miranda Fossett's throat, and if they were lucky, very lucky, there would be blood remaining in the wooden handle of one of those weapons. And as an extra added bonus, they found a small, royal blue handbag stuffed in the back of the master bedroom closet. Miranda Fossett's driver's license and two hundred dollars cash was inside.
The body was bagged and headed for Birmingham, and Sam said again that he was confident that this was, indeed, a suicide.
Back at the station, Mal headed straight for the evidence room and the officer stationed there. He handed over the letter, cash and roll of film from Miranda Fossett's safe-deposit box.
"See about getting that film developed for me," he said halfheartedly. It was too little too late, but he wanted a look at those photographs that were worth killing for, worth five lives and Frannie's house.
But the photos would keep. Right now he had to go home and tell Frannie that the nightmare was over.
* * *
She hadn't started to worry until well into the afternoon, but once she started fretting it was impossible to stop. Dammit, Bridger should have called hours ago and told her what was in the safe-deposit box!
She'd puttered away most of the day, cleaning a little, taking a shower and dressing in one of her new outfits. The lavender skirt and matching blouse were a little big, but the outfit was comfortable and cool.
Frannie sat on the couch with her newest—her only—angel in her lap. It said more about Bridger than he knew, that he'd bought this slightly imperfect angel. Even more, it said something wonderful about him, that he knew how much the figurine meant to her.
The music that played softly helped to calm her. She'd found a few cassettes in the small storage drawer of Bridger's entertainment center, and among them were a couple of old soft rock collections that were familiar and soothing. She let the low music wash over her, and told herself again and again that if anything was wrong Bridger would be here.
The knock on the door was solid but steadier than in the past few days, and Frannie set the slender porcelain angel on the end table as she jumped off the couch and hurried to the door to throw the dead bolt and let Bridger in.
There was something different about him as he stepped into his apartment and closed the door. For one thing, he didn't immediately set the dead bolt back into place.
"Well?" she said as she peeled off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. "What did you find?"
He faced her then. His posture was more relaxed, even his eyes were calmer. "We got him," he said softly.
Frannie practically threw herself at Bridger, tossing her arms around his neck and holding tight. There had been moments when she was sure they'd never know who had threatened her and destroyed her house, terrifying moments when she was certain this would never be over. "Thank you," she whispered.
She felt the gentle sift of Bridger's hand through her hair. The touch was familiar and soothing. "Don't thank me. The guy killed himself and left enough clues in his house to solve the murders of Jacob and Miranda Fossett, Violet Doyle, and the man from the tattoo parlor in Huntsville. A possible murder weapon, Miranda's purse, a damaged fender. There were even electronic components that might have been used to make a bomb, and I'm pretty sure they'll match up with what was used at your place."
He should have been ecstatic, but instead he sounded almost disappointed.
"Sounds perfect," she whispered. "So what's wrong?"
He hesitated for a moment. Fingers were wound in her hair, and one arm was tightly encircling her waist. Her blouse shifted so that one shoulder was bared, and as if it were a kind of invitation, Bridger kissed her there.
"Maybe it's too perfect," he said softly, his breath warm against her skin. "Then again, maybe I'm just looking for trouble where there isn't any."
"Now why would you do that?" she whispered against his chest.
"Harry thinks I just don't want to let you go, yet."
Yet. Frannie closed her eyes tight. "Yeah, well, what does he know?" she asked lightly, glad her face was hidden for the moment. She'd known from the beginning this was a temporary relationship. Bridge
r had never lied and tried to tell her differently.
"He thinks he knows everything."
She brushed one finger against Bridger's white shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin seeping through, warming her fingertip. "I thought that was a trait common to the detectives in the homicide division."
She knew what she had to do, didn't she? Hard as it would be, there was no choice. She didn't doubt for a minute that what she felt for Bridger was love, but this was no way to start a relationship. One really bad day had brought them together the first time, and tragedy had brought Bridger back to her. His sense of duty and intense physical attraction kept them together. But for how long?
"Bridger?" she said softly, not even trying to pretend that this was a lighthearted moment. "I want you to take me home."
"What?" With a finger beneath her chin he forced her to look up, into his face. His features were rugged, the lines sharp and occasionally brutal, but he had always been beautiful to her.
"My house," she whispered. "I need to see it."
He shook his head. "No, you don't. It'll just upset you."
It'll hurt. She knew that. But before she moved forward, she had to look back. Just once. "If you won't take me I'll go by myself." She would do it, but, God, she didn't want to face the sight alone. She wanted Bridger there, holding her hand.
He didn't make her wait long. "All right."
* * *
The sun was low in the sky, but not yet setting, when they arrived at her lot on Oak Street
. She could only call it a lot now, since in her view from the passenger window there was nothing resembling a house left.
Where her little house had once stood, there was a charred, black blemish on the earth. All that remained in the burned square were lumps of unidentifiable wood and metal, misshapen, charred lumps of what had been her life. The azaleas were gone, she noted numbly, and then she choked back a hysterical sob that bordered on a laugh. She was worried about the azaleas? Everything was gone.
She opened the door, and when Bridger tried to stop her she brushed him off, keeping her eyes on the blight before her. If she looked at him she would cry, and she didn't want to cry right now. He couldn't stand a woman's tears, she remembered.
"I painted last year," she said when Bridger appeared beside her and slipped his arm around her waist. Good, she thought as she leaned slightly into his warm arm. I won't fall now. Her knees were awfully weak all of a sudden. Bridger kept her standing, with his steady arm and, even more, just by being there as she made herself look at the damage before her.
There was yellow crime scene tape encircling her property, and Bridger held it up so she could go under. The closer she got to the place where her house had been, the more debris she stepped on and around. Then she reached a place where the glass beneath her feet was abundant.
She looked at the numerous small, jagged shards of glass beneath her feet. Something crunched ominously beneath the soles of her shoes. "If we'd been closer to the house when it blew up, we might have been badly hurt." The healing cuts on the back of her arms throbbed slightly at the reminder.
Bridger didn't say anything. Oh well, it was a statement that didn't require a response.
When Frannie tried to take a step closer to the house, he held her back gently but firmly. "Close enough," he said softly.
Perhaps he was right. This time she didn't try to change his mind or go on alone. She leaned into his arm and stared at the blackened mess before her, trying to remind herself that she and Bridger were lucky to be alive. She knew it was the truth, but looking at what was left of her life still hurt, as she'd known it would.
"I worked so hard at making this home," she admitted. "It was my nest, my haven, my place to hide from everything in the world I didn't want to face. I painted it and decorated it and loved it." As though if I loved it enough it would love me back.
"I know you did," he said soothingly. He didn't assure her, as he had the night of the bombing, that they would find another house. A bigger, better house to paint and love. In fact, he hadn't used the word we in a while. He'd never used the word love.
Frannie rested her head against Bridger's shoulder, and his hand lifted slowly to cup her head. Together they watched what remained of her home as the sun set. They didn't move, they didn't speak.
Everything ended, she knew that. There was a beginning and an end to all things, good and bad. But she'd never expected her time in this house she'd loved to end so suddenly and violently. In the blink of an eye everything she'd worked and saved for and loved was gone.
Even the tender, last light of day wasn't kind to the destruction. What was left of her home remained ugly, until darkness softened the edges and drank in some of the charred blackness.
"I'm ready to go," Frannie said as nighttime finally claimed the sight before her. Bridger turned her about and led her to the car. She didn't look back.
The drive to his place was silent, and seemed to take much longer than the earlier trip from his apartment to what was left of her house. It was fully dark when they arrived, though the complex was well lit with sporadically placed streetlamps and a number of porch lights.
Frannie sat in the car and looked up at the second floor, stared at Bridger's front door as he circled the car. He opened her door and offered a steady hand, a hand she gratefully took.
What would she do when it came time to let go of Bridger? Losing him was going to be much harder than losing a house and everything in it, but she didn't think she could change the end of their tenuous relationship any more than she'd been able to change the violent destruction of her home.
That knowledge didn't make her want him any less.
Inside his apartment he locked the door behind them. Frannie stood over the end table and looked down at the angel she'd placed there earlier. She did her best to think of nothing at all, not the future or the past, not what she'd lost or what she'd found.
She was getting used to Bridger coming up behind her without making a sound. This time she knew he was coming, she felt rather than heard him, and when he put his arms around her she didn't so much as flinch.
"Are you all right?" he whispered in her ear.
"Yes," she said, and amazingly she meant it.
With one slow and easy finger, Bridger slipped her blouse aside so that her shoulder was bared again. That finger brushed against her skin, warm and light and comforting, as if he were tracing an unseen path. When he kissed her there, she smiled. A kiss really could make everything better.
Turning in his arms, she lifted her face for a kiss, parting her lips as his mouth touched hers. She wanted to memorize this exact feeling—the heat and the flutter, the weakness in her knees and the throb of her heart. When she closed her eyes she wanted to be able to remember exactly how he smelled and tasted. She placed her hand against his chest. She needed to memorize this, too—the steady beat of his heart.
Giving Bridger up was going to hurt worst of all, but it didn't have to hurt tonight.
* * *
Chapter 16
« ^ »
"Bridger?"
Mal came awake slowly, gently, the sound of Frannie's voice bringing him to consciousness. He reached out for her, as he had in the night, needing to hold her. When he'd reached out to her in the wee hours of the morning she'd come to him wordlessly, as if it were their first time … or their last.
He didn't want to need anything, not like this, but he couldn't help it. He was past resistance. His hand slid over bare sheet, touched the pillow where Frannie had laid her head last night. He knew she was close, her voice had been practically in his ear.
"Come on, Bridger, wake up."
He opened his eyes to see that she wasn't in the bed at all, but stood over him. She was fully dressed, in her new jeans and the pale blue sweater Robin had given him three Christmases ago.
"What are you doing up?" He glanced at the clock, it was barely six. She'd already showered—her hair was still slightly damp—and she'd
dressed and put on a little pink lipstick. In the faint light from the hallway she looked like his own angel, fresh and good and beautiful. His heart constricted at the unexpected thought.
She smiled at him, but it wasn't the wide, crooked smile that had captivated him from the night he'd met her. This smile was controlled and a little sad. "I tried to leave without saying goodbye, but I couldn't do it."
"Leave?" He sat up quickly, and when he did he saw the tote bag sitting by the bedroom door. The angel he'd bought Frannie was standing beside it.
"It's time," she said softly.
"You can stay here as long as you want." He reached for his boxers and put them on quickly. Frannie took a step back.
"I know." She backed to the door and scooped up her tote bag, tossing the long strap over her shoulder. Then she picked up the porcelain angel, grasping it tightly in one hand. "But it's not a good idea."
He didn't know if he was angry or scared, but something he didn't like welled up in his chest. Why hadn't she mentioned this last night? He could have argued more effectively with her if he was clearheaded. He could have convinced her she was wrong, if she was lying beneath him. "Look, you don't have a place to go, and I'm still not convinced that Blake is the right guy."
"You said yourself that there was more than enough evidence in Blake's apartment to close the case," she said sensibly. "And I do have a place to go." With the weight of the bag on one shoulder, she stood with her arms and legs off center.
"Where?"
She shifted her weight. "I have a part-time job at Terri's Trash and Treasure. It's an antique shop on Bank Street
. Terri has a room upstairs I can live in, free of charge, until I get my life back in order again. It used to be a small apartment, and then it was a storage room for years. There's a bathroom and a small kitchen and lots of closet space. It just needs a little fixing up."
"Frannie…" Mal took a step forward, and she lifted the figurine in her hand as if he were a vampire and the skinny angel her silver cross. He stopped. "You're going to work part-time in a junk store. That's your plan?"
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