Breathe Your Last: An addictive and nail-biting crime thriller (Detective Josie Quinn Book 10)

by Lisa Regan

  Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “They were on a paper plate right on the kitchen table.”

  “I didn’t see them, Bron,” Dorothy said angrily. “Grandpa was setting his house on fire!”

  “Okay, girls,” Josie said. She turned to Michelle. “Did your dad make brownies for the girls on a regular basis?”

  Michelle shook her head. “I never knew him to bake.”

  Josie was, quite arguably, the worst baker on the planet. She turned to Mettner. “How long does it take to make brownies?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Michelle said, “Out of the box—which is the only way my dad would make them if he baked—twenty to twenty-five minutes.”

  Josie looked at Dorothy. “Do you think he was inside that long?”

  One thin shoulder shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Kids had little sense of time. Josie knew this wasn’t something they’d be able to pin down.

  Mettner said, “Did you girls see anything else? Anything with the brownies? Did they have wrappers on them or anything? Maybe a sticker?”

  Bronwyn said, “No. They were just on a paper plate on the table.”

  “Was someone in the house with him?” Michelle asked.

  Both girls looked from one adult to the next until Dorothy gave a one-shouldered shrug and answered for both of them. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else. Did you, Bron?”

  She looked at her little sister who said, “No. Only you and Grandpa.”

  Josie said, “Dorothy, you got out first and ran down to the road. Did you see anyone?”

  “No,” she said. “If I did, I would have asked them for help.”

  “Did you see any cars? Either leaving the driveway or going up or down the road? Maybe too far away for you to get their attention?”

  She shook her head.

  Josie thought back to when she’d pulled out of the Tiny Tykes parking lot. She didn’t remember seeing any vehicles coming her way, from the direction of the Walsh property, and no one had been in front of her either. If they had, they would have seen Dorothy first. She was going over everything the girls had told them in her head when she felt the heat of Michelle’s gaze on her. She met the mother’s eyes.

  Michelle said, “Where did the brownies come from?”

  “I don’t know,” Josie said. “Let’s get over to the hospital and see how your dad is doing. Maybe he can tell us.”

  Twenty-Three

  Darkness fell like a blanket over the mountain as Sawyer and Owen secured the girls in the back of the ambulance. Above them, light from a half moon sliced through the trees, giving everything a silver glow. All around, the sounds of crickets, cicadas, and about a half dozen different types of frogs called, whistled, peeped, and sounded off like rattles. The sound of life continuing on, oblivious to the tragedy that had just happened a quarter mile up the driveway. They could still see and smell smoke from the house, as well as the lights of the fire trucks. Raised voices of the firefighters reached them now and then. Michelle agreed to follow the ambulance to Denton Memorial Hospital. Josie and Mettner walked back to his car and joined the caravan.

  The ER was quiet on the outside. Inside was a different story, the waiting room packed with bodies of Denton City firefighters waiting for word on Clay Walsh. Josie and Mettner weaved their way through the men and women, offering sympathetic shoulder pats and nods. Finally, they came to the security desk right before the locked, glass double doors that separated the waiting room from the treatment area. They flashed their credentials, and the guard passed them through.

  It took only seconds to find Clay Walsh. All of the noise in the unit was concentrated behind a glass enclosure. Nurses and doctors hurried about, shouting out vital signs and orders. Medical waste littered the floor at their feet. Monitors bleeped and blared. Josie looked around but didn’t see Michelle or the girls. Someone would have put them on the opposite end of the ER, she realized, so they wouldn’t have to witness the desperate flurry of medical personnel trying to keep Clay alive. The sight of him made her heart flutter, seize, and flutter again. His head and most of his upper body had escaped the flames, but the color of the skin on his lower body and one of his arms was a combination of black and a red the hue and consistency of raw meat. Josie had seen a lot on the job, but this was hard to take. Turning away, she drew in a deep breath, and then returned to her position beside Mettner, looking on. He seemed unaffected. Then again, one of the things that made him an excellent detective was that nothing ever got to him—or if it did, he never showed it. After several minutes, the activity in the glass room became less frenetic and a doctor slipped into the hallway, tugging off his blue skull cap to reveal thick, dark hair. Josie read his name tag: Dr. Ahmed Nashat.

  “Doctor,” she said as she and Mettner produced their credentials again. “Is he able to talk?”

  The doctor shook his head. Pocketing his skull cap, he looked back into the room, where nurses rerouted wires and fed medication into an IV. “He won’t be talking anytime soon. We’ve stabilized him for now, and we’ve arranged for a life flight helicopter to fly him to the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, but he’s got full-thickness burns over sixty percent of his body. His airway and lungs are a mess. Smoke inhalation. You probably already know this, but that’s a bigger killer than burns in fire cases. I’m sorry to tell you, Detectives, but Mr. Walsh may not survive the trip to Philadelphia. Even if he does, I’m not sure they’ll be able to help him.”

  Mettner said, “He hasn’t been able to say anything? To communicate in any way?”

  Dr. Nashat frowned. “I’m afraid not.” He stared in at Clay Walsh once more, and then seemed to remember something. He turned his gaze back to them. “You’re the police. You wouldn’t be here unless a crime was committed. Was this arson?”

  Josie said, “It’s going to take some time for that to be officially determined. We really can’t say. We’re looking at every possibility.”

  Dr. Nashat crooked a finger, beckoning them into the room. The smell of burned flesh turned Josie’s stomach. She glanced at Mettner and saw that this affected him—physically, if not mentally. His face turned a pale shade of green.

  Dr. Nashat motioned them toward a tray table on one side of the room. On it were several basins which held scraps of clothing which they’d obviously removed from Walsh’s burned flesh. In one basin was what appeared to be a melted piece of plastic. “This,” Dr. Nashat said, holding the basin up for their inspection. “He was clutching this in his good hand, so tightly it took some effort to uncurl his fingers. If you would, look closer.”

  He picked up a pair of tweezers and used them to point at a portion of the plastic. Something white lay in contrast to the pink plastic basin. Josie and Mettner leaned in simultaneously. There, affixed to what Josie could only conclude was a piece of Saran wrap, was half of a sticker. One half of a sinister face, its eyes the shapes of the letter X, its head broken open and wayward, frenzied lines extending out of it.

  “Son of a bitch,” said Josie. “Dr. Nashat, can you run a tox screen on Mr. Walsh before you transfer him?”

  He raised a brow at her but didn’t argue. “Sure, I suppose. Why not? You’ll have a warrant?”

  “Yes,” said Josie, looking over to see that Mettner was already pressing his phone to his ear. “Gretchen?” he said as he walked out of the room. “Can you do something for us?”

  Josie turned back to Dr. Nashat. “Thank you,” she said. “We’ll be back.”

  Outside the room, she waited until Mettner had given Gretchen all the information she needed. When he hung up, Josie said, “We need to talk to Michelle again.”

  It took a few laps around the halls of the emergency department to find Michelle Walsh. She stood outside a curtained-off area, talking in low tones on her cell phone. Her eyes were red and glassy from crying. She hung up as Josie and Mettner approached. “Were you able to talk to my dad? They said he was in really bad shape. T
hey’re sending him to a hospital in Philadelphia, but I thought maybe you got him to talk?”

  Josie shook her head. “I’m sorry, Michelle, but no. He wasn’t able to talk.”

  Mettner said, “Miss Walsh, we just need to ask you a few more questions.”

  “Of course. What’s going on?”

  Josie took out her phone and brought up the photo of the sticker they’d found in Nysa Somers’ backpack, since it was intact and not half-melted like the one that Clay Walsh had clutched as he tried to escape his house. “Does this look familiar to you?”

  Michelle grimaced. “Ew, no. What is that?”

  Mettner asked, “Did your dad ever use drugs?”

  “Of course not. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.”

  “Isn’t he retired?” Josie said.

  “Oh, well, yeah. He retired about five months ago. After the flooding. That was a lot on everyone. Plus, I’d just started a new job, and I needed help with the girls. Dad retired so he could help me with babysitting and school pickup. My mom died when Dorothy was a baby. I’m a single mother. All I’ve got is my dad.”

  Josie sent up a silent prayer that Clay Walsh would have a miraculous recovery.

  “What about edibles?” Mettner asked. “Did he ever try them?”

  Michelle raised a brow. “You’re thinking of the brownies, aren’t you? What do you think? Some drug dealer showed up while my kids were there and sold him some pot brownies? Are you crazy?”

  Her voice had reached a shriek. Calmly, Josie responded, “We have to ask.”

  “Why? Why do you have to ask that? You think my dad ate a pot brownie and burned his house down with my kids there? Are you listening to yourselves? First of all, what the hell kind of pot would make a person do that? Second, my dad is one of the most highly decorated firefighters in this city. He served for decades. He’s saved hundreds of lives and done more community service than almost anyone else in the department. I know that you heard what my kids said, but I’m telling you, what happened today was as out of character for my dad as you could possibly get.”

  “You don’t believe the girls?” Mettner said.

  Michelle’s chin dropped to her chest. A shaky breath rattled her frame. She looked back up, crossing her arms over her chest. “Of course I believe my girls. But you heard them: Dad heard a car in the driveway. He didn’t make those brownies. Someone brought them to him. Whatever he did today wasn’t his fault. He had to be under the influence of something, or else he would never intentionally set a fire, and he would absolutely never, ever put my kids in danger.” She lowered her voice and took a step closer to Josie and Mettner. “We’re talking about arson here. Arson. I’m already wondering how the hell to explain this to the guys he worked with. Do you think they’re going to believe a couple of kids, even his own grandkids, that Clay Walsh—the legendary Clay Walsh—set his own house on fire? They’ll never accept that.”

  Josie asked, “Do you think that your dad would have eaten a brownie if he knew they had something in them?”

  “Of course not.”

  Josie said, “Michelle, I believe you. I think there’s more to what happened than we know. We’re going to do everything we can to get to the bottom of it, that I promise you. Can you tell us, was your dad feuding with anyone? Having trouble with anyone?”

  “No, no.”

  Mettner asked, “Was he dating anyone? Had he just broken up with anyone?”

  Michelle barked a laugh. “Dad? Date? Please. No. He hasn’t been on a date in years.”

  “Does the name Nysa Somers mean anything to you?”

  “No. Who’s that?”

  Mettner said, “She was a student at the university.”

  Michelle didn’t pick up on his use of the past tense. She shook her head rapidly and pushed her hands through her hair. “No. My dad doesn’t know anyone from the university. Unless there was a fire there, he would never be up there for any reason.”

  Josie said, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”

  Michelle’s hands dropped to her sides. She sniffled. “No. Jesus, no. Everyone loves my dad. He’s the best.”

  Twenty-Four

  Sleep didn’t come easily, but mostly because I was so keyed up, there was no way I was going to get any rest. For hours I refreshed the WYEP website, looking for news of Denton’s felled hero. Not only had he been brought down, now he would be disgraced. Not for the first time, I wished I could share my brilliance with someone. But that wasn’t really an option. My earlier excitement about being seen faded. Maybe I wasn’t truly being seen—that wasn’t possible—but my actions were being noticed. For the first time, they weren’t being written off as unfortunate accidents. Now everyone knew my power. It was a very different, very heady feeling, than the quiet satisfaction of knowing I had given someone their comeuppance.

  I kept refreshing. Finally, sometime after midnight, the story appeared. Local Firefighter Badly Burned in House Fire.

  My heart jumped into my throat. “Badly burned?” I muttered.

  It wasn’t right. Then I realized it wouldn’t matter. That was the beauty of my new and improved method. Even if he survived, he wouldn’t remember what happened. He wouldn’t remember starting the fire or even seeing me.

  How badly burned, I wondered? Badly enough for him to pay for how harshly he had treated me during our encounter months earlier? My face flushed red as I remembered how rudely he had spoken to me. “Get out of my damn way,” he had growled. Then he had pushed me aside, like I was nothing. He hadn’t even apologized. Hadn’t even given me another glance.

  Brain buzzing, I read on. Had I at least managed to kill one of those little brats he took with him everywhere?

  “Shit.”

  Everyone had survived. Not that it mattered. None of them had even seen me. Still, it chafed. Every last one of them had made it out of the fire and yet, WYEP reported that the “city was reeling” over the “tragedy that unfolded at Clay Walsh’s house.”

  A city reeling.

  They had no idea. Even before I chose Clay, I had set other things in motion.

  Twenty-Five

  Toxicology panel in hand, Josie and Mettner returned to the stationhouse. Noah had finally answered Josie’s texts, promising to be there and to drive her home. As annoyed as she was with him for not responding to her most of the day, she couldn’t wait to see him. Part of her wanted to keep working on the case—or cases—until she had nothing left and all the answers to her questions had been laid bare. Another part of her wanted nothing more than to go home with Noah and make him use his hands and mouth to make her forget everything about the past two days.

  It was late, and all of them except Gretchen—who had volunteered to work late—should have been at home, but in the great room at the stationhouse, they convened: Josie, Mettner, Gretchen, Noah, and the Chief. Even Amber Watts was there, now dressed casually in jeans and a light sweater with her auburn hair twisted up in a loose bun. When Mettner sat down at his desk, she drifted over and stood behind him.

  Chief Chitwood’s face was already beet red, and none of them had spoken a word yet. “I just got off the phone with the city’s fire marshal. His team of investigators won’t be able to assess the Walsh house for the cause of the fire until tomorrow. I didn’t tell him that a couple of elementary school kids told my detectives that one of the most decorated firefighters in this city set his own damn house on fire. I don’t want to have to tell him that. Am I going to have to tell him that?”

  No one dared answer. Clearly, he was on a roll. He continued, “Palmer brought me up to speed after she prepared the warrant for toxicology on Clay Walsh, which was a bitch to get a judge to sign, by the way, because we’re talking about a city hero. But I understand you’ve got the tox screen, so please tell me what we’re dealing with here because I need something more to tell the fire marshal and everyone who works for him besides that Clay Walsh lost his mind and burned his house to the ground.”


  Mettner and Josie looked at one another, silently trying to decide which of them was going to give the news. Finally, Mettner sighed and said, “The tox screen was clean.”

  A collective gasp went up around the room. The Chief hollered, “What?”

  Josie noticed Amber slide a hand onto Mettner’s shoulder and squeeze.

  Noah said, “How is that possible?”

  Gretchen said, “You said there were brownies and a sticker just like we saw with Nysa Somers. That’s how I got the warrant—by convincing the judge that a championship swimmer doesn’t drown herself on Monday and a decorated firefighter doesn’t nearly kill himself by setting a fire on Tuesday, but that something else is going on. Like someone going around getting people to eat brownies laced with some kind of drug that would make them do these things. The only reason I could sell that to the judge was because the sticker was present in both cases.”

  Josie held up her hands to silence Gretchen. “I know, I know.”

  The Chief said, “You’re telling us the brownies had nothing in them? That these two people just lost their minds within a day of one another?”

  “No,” Josie said. “That’s not what I’m telling you. Not at all. We all know tox screens don’t test for everything, only the most common drugs.”

  “Right,” Mettner said. “This just means we can eliminate amphetamines, cannabis, cocaine, opioids, barbiturates, benzos, PCP, Quaaludes, methadone, and Darvon.”

  Noah said, “Which leaves what? Date rape drugs? GHB? Rohypnol?”

  “That makes more sense,” said Gretchen. “Those drugs have short half-lives. They don’t stay in your system that long. If it’s one of those, then Nysa Somers’ tox screen will be clean, too.”

  “But if it was one of those,” Josie said, “it still might have shown up in Walsh’s tox screen. There wasn’t that long a time period between when we believe he ate the brownie and when his blood was drawn. Also, I’ve had the misfortune of seeing people who’ve been given GHB and Rohypnol. I’m not sure they would be as steady as Nysa Somers was on video. It’s possible. Some people take GHB recreationally, but mostly date rape drugs are meant to incapacitate. Nysa Somers wasn’t incapacitated. Clay Walsh wasn’t incapacitated.”