by Karen Rose
Olivia winced. “The Fischers won’t be happy if we further delay Joel’s service, but if we can show he was drugged, it might ease their minds.”
“You two focus on Joel. I’ll talk to Kenny,” Abbott said.
“What about Val?” Olivia asked. “We need to find her. Her family deserves that.”
“I’ll send Jack Phelps and Sam Wyatt,” Abbott said. “Where should they start?”
“She said she always went to a sub shop, three blocks from the school. It makes sense that the man who… who shot Kane, also took Val. He was focused on finding out what we knew about Austin Dent.”
“We’ll trace her last movements, but we may not find her till we find him,” Abbott said. “So go find him.” He put up his hand when they all moved to go. “Everybody wears vests. Everywhere you go. No arguments. Be careful.”
Outside Abbott’s office, Noah placed his hat on his head and after a moment’s hesitation Olivia did the same. “Don’t tell me it’s very Ingrid Bergman,” she warned.
Noah’s mouth curved sadly. “I was going to say Kane would approve.”
Olivia gave him a hard nod. “Let’s get this done.”
Wednesday, September 22, 9:30 a.m.
David had cleared his maintenance duty list, cooked breakfast for the team, called the hospital once again to check on Jeff—no change—and cleaned the kitchen.
There were no more tasks keeping him from calling Dana’s husband. With a sigh and an inward curse at his own issues, he pulled out the card Tom had given him and stepped out into the truck bay, half hoping for the station’s call tone to peal.
Ethan Buchanan answered on the first ring, almost as if he’d been expecting the call. “What can I do for you, David?” he asked.
“I guess I want to hire you,” David said, rubbing a tense muscle in his neck.
“Don’t make me hurt you, Hunter. What do you need, for God’s sake?”
That was better. Warm and fuzzy would have been way too awkward and former Marine Ethan Buchanan was one of the few who could have delivered on that threat.
“I had an intruder yesterday.” He explained the situation to Ethan who said nothing until he was finished. “I want to know who helped this guy, because I don’t want to worry about anyone coming back and hurting anyone in my building. The idea of insane zealots with guns being angry with me has me a little rattled.”
“I understand. I felt that way over in the Gulf,” Ethan said wryly, “and I had bigger guns. How are the cops involved?”
“The cops have bigger problems. They don’t have the resources to work this right now. Except that I know that one of the Web site visitors is on Olivia’s radar—Joel Fischer. He died two days ago. Drove his car off the road and into a couple trees.”
“Why’s he on Olivia’s radar?”
“He was at the first fire.”
“Got it. So we’ll be giving her what we turn up?”
“I don’t know. Will we get arrested?”
“You wound me. We can make an anonymous contribution. Usually all we provide is a lead versus solid proof for a jury. E-mail me the phone numbers you couldn’t trace. Give me a few hours. I’ll call you.”
“Thanks, man.” The call siren squealed. “I have to go, we have a call. I’ll send the phone numbers when I get back. Thanks, Ethan.”
• • •
Wednesday, September 22, 9:45 a.m.
Austin nodded to a man coming out of the gas station convenience store as he went in. He was down to twenty bucks, which wouldn’t buy much. Luckily his mom kept her tank filled. He had enough fuel to make it the rest of the way.
He grabbed a cola, trying to play it cool even as he wondered if anyone was saying anything behind him. If someone was calling the cops this minute. Then he lifted his eyes to the television mounted behind the register and froze.
My face. That’s my face. The tiny screen was filled with last year’s school picture, his hair bright red and curly. There was no captioning, so he had no idea if they wanted to arrest him or wanted to keep him safe. Fuck. He turned away, pretending to examine the selection of wiper blades. His face was on the fucking television. At least he had his hoodie on and it covered most of his hair. He rubbed his cheek, relieved at the stubble that scratched his fingertips. At least he didn’t look like a high school kid.
I have to get rid of the hair. It’s like a fucking neon sign.
He looked around the store, unwilling to draw attention to himself by buying scissors and not seeing any anyway. He settled on a cheap souvenir Swiss army knife and a three-pack of razors. On a whim he grabbed a roll of cough drops, hoping that would keep anyone from questioning why he didn’t talk.
He dumped his purchases on the counter, keeping his eyes down and trying not to wince at the total. He had less than two dollars left. Faking a cough, he kept his hand over his mouth and pointed to the toilet key, hanging from an old license plate.
Bored, the guy behind the counter handed it to him. So far so good.
Wednesday, September 22, 9:45 a.m.
Olivia stopped the car at the Fischers’ curb. “I wish we could have told them that Joel was injected or something.”
“Me too,” Noah said, “but you can’t argue with stomach contents. Ian found the binders from the pills still in his lining. Joel swallowed the oxy.” He started to get out of the car but settled back when she didn’t move. “What?”
“I was wondering why I’m still on this case.” She’d been thinking about it since morning meeting was over. “I would have thought Abbott would pull me off.”
“He did think about it,” Noah said. “I told him I thought it would be the wrong thing. You have the background and all the data. And you held yourself together pretty well with Kenny. A lot of cops would have been tempted to tear his arm off.”
“I was.”
“But you didn’t. That alone scored you the most points. So keep it together, Sutherland. You’ll find this guy and the system will make him pay.”
“Okay. Let’s go talk to the Fischers. Take your shoes off at the door.”
Mr. Fischer greeted them at the door before they could knock. “My son’s burial is today,” he said harshly. “Why are you here? And who is this man?”
“We need to talk to you about your son. This is Detective Webster. He’ll be working this case with me from now on.”
“What happened to the other detective?”
She lifted her chin. “Detective Kane was killed last night in the line of duty.”
Fischer looked as though he’d been slapped. “Oh no. Come in. I didn’t know,” he said when they’d deposited their shoes at the door and entered. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” Olivia said. “Is Mrs. Fischer available, too?”
“I’ll get her. Please sit down.”
They did, Olivia scanning the room. Twelve hours ago, everything had been different for her, but not for this family. They’d been living with their grief for two days.
“They have a daughter, too,” Noah murmured, pointing to the kitchen door. A girl of about sixteen stood there, watching them, a mixture of caution and anger on her face.
“I didn’t know that last night,” Olivia murmured back. “We’ll want to talk to her, too.”
The Fischers came to the living room, Mrs. Fischer frowning slightly. “Go back to your room, Sasha. I’ll come get you when they’re gone.”
Sasha obeyed and Mrs. Fischer settled herself on the sofa next to her husband. “We’re sorry about your partner, Detective,” she said stiffly.
“Thank you. This won’t be an easy conversation and I’m going to apologize in advance, but we need to talk to you about Joel’s overdose.”
Mrs. Fischer’s lips thinned. “I told you he was no druggie.”
“And I believe you,” Olivia said gently. “But there were drugs found in Joel’s system and we need to know where he got them.”
“We think he got them from someone else who was at the fire,” No
ah said. “The same drug was found elsewhere Monday night, after Joel was gone.”
“The drug was oxycodone, also called Percocet,” Olivia said. “It’s prescribed for pain. Sometimes it’s bought off the street. Did Joel have friends who might have—”
“No,” Mrs. Fischer exclaimed, starting to rise. “Now get out.”
“Norma,” Mr. Fischer said quietly, putting pressure on her thigh until she sat back down. “No, Detective, we don’t know anyone who would have those drugs.”
“All right,” Olivia said. “We’ll talk to his friends, then. We also need to ask you about Joel’s girlfriend. She wrote a note, signed it ‘M.’”
“He didn’t have a girlfriend,” Mrs. Fischer insisted. “He would have told us.”
“No, Mama.”
The adults whipped their gazes to the right, where Sasha stood in the hallway, clenching her hands together. “Sasha, go to your room,” Mrs. Fischer commanded.
“No, Mama.” Sasha came forward, her lips quivering, her eyes dark against a face drained of color. “Joel had a girlfriend. I heard him talking to her on the phone.”
“When, honey?” Noah asked softly.
“Lots of times. I never met her.” The teen looked miserable. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Why didn’t he tell us, Sasha?” Mr. Fischer asked, pain in his eyes.
Sasha hesitated. “She wasn’t Jewish.”
“What makes you think that?” Noah asked her.
“On the phone once, Joel was explaining why he couldn’t meet her. He sounded like he was trying to calm her down. It was at Shavuot and he had to go to Temple.”
Noah glanced at Olivia. “It’s a holiday,” she murmured. “Late spring.”
“So Joel knew her that long ago,” Noah said. “When did you last hear them speak?”
“Last Thursday. I wasn’t eavesdropping, but the wall is thin. I just… heard.”
“What exactly did you hear, Sasha?” Olivia asked, and the girl blushed a dark red.
“I can’t. I can’t say.” She darted a panicked look at her parents. “Please.”
Olivia remembered the lipstick on the pillow and understood. “It’s all right, honey.”
“No, it’s not,” Mrs. Fischer cried. “What’s going on here?”
“Were you home on Thursday night, ma’am?” Olivia asked.
“No. Thursdays we play bridge.”
“We found evidence Joel had a girl in his room. We need to find this girl.”
Mrs. Fischer closed her eyes. “We don’t know her. Please, just leave.”
“Ma’am,” Olivia said urgently, “these arsonists set a fire last night that killed four more people. Innocent people. A firefighter was critically injured. Later last night a boy Sasha’s age was almost kidnapped by one of them. My partner died saving that boy’s life. We need to stop them and if this girlfriend can help us, then we need to find her.”
“What do you want us to do?” Mrs. Fischer asked dully.
“We haven’t recovered Joel’s phone,” Noah said. “Do you have it?”
Both Fischers shook their heads. “But we can get you the records of who he called,” Mr. Fischer said.
Again Sasha hesitated. “He had another phone. One of the prepaid ones, so that he could have privacy. So that you couldn’t see who he’d called.”
“How do you know this?” Noah asked.
She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a flip phone. “He gave me one on my birthday. Said I was sixteen, old enough for privacy. I’m sorry, Dad.”
“What is her name?” Olivia asked. “And do you know where they’d meet?”
“He called her Mary. I’m sorry, I don’t know a last name. Usually he’d tell her to meet him outside the library. Once he told her to meet him at the Deli. It’s a sandwich place near the school, but she must’ve said no, because he said he’d go to her dorm.”
Olivia leaned forward. “Do you remember which dorm Mary lives in?”
“No. He just said ‘the dorm.’ I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Olivia said. “You were an amazing help and brave. Thank you.”
She waited until she and Noah were in the car. “How many girls named Mary do you think live in the university dorms?” she asked glumly.
“I don’t know, but I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”
Olivia started the car. “It may not be that difficult. If Joel visited her in the dorm, she had to sign him in. He’d be in the log.” She’d pulled to the end of the Fischers’ street when Noah’s cell phone rang.
“Change that plan,” he said when he hung up. “Ian wants us back at the morgue. He’s about to let the Fischer boy go, but needs us to see something first.”
Wednesday, September 22, 10:05 a.m.
Austin winced as he jerked the souvenir knife’s dull blade over the last of his hair. It wasn’t sharp enough to cut butter, but he’d made do. Now he dropped the last of his hair into the gas station’s totally gross, outside toilet and flushed it down. No reason to leave handfuls of red hair in a trash can for everyone to see.
He pulled the first of the three disposable razor blades from the package and winced again as he prepared to shave his head. The sink only ran cold water, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Three very dull blades later, he ran his hand over his mostly bald head. Add to that three days’ growth of his beard, and he looked nothing like the picture that was being flashed on the television.
Logic told him that he should believe the texts on his phone were really from the cops. Except that the ones from Kenny were playing with his mind. They lie. Don’t trust them. He’d drive the rest of the way into town. Somewhere he’d find a television with closed-captioning and he’d see what was really happening.
Wednesday, September 22, 10:30 a.m.
“This is embarrassing,” David muttered, then flinched when a petite ER doctor pulled the suture on his chin a little too hard. “Ow. That hurts. Aren’t you done yet?”
She rolled her eyes. “You big guys are the worst, you know. Whine, whine, whine.”
He felt the need to defend himself. “Hey, it’s fifteen stitches.”
Her lips tipped up as she pulled another suture. “Only fourteen. You’ll have a scar, though, so you can brag about it for years to come.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Casey burst through the curtain, anger in his eyes that David knew was leftover panic. “What the hell did you do to yourself, Hunter?”
“I was stupid, okay?” David said, now angry with himself. “Ouch.”
“Hold still, cowboy,” she said. “Could you please sit down, whoever you are?”
Casey pulled up a chair and dropped into it. “I’m his captain. He’ll live?”
“Oh, sure. He’ll have a hell of a headache, but he’ll survive. Not so sure if he’ll survive the ribbing he’ll get later.”
“Thank you,” David said sarcastically. “I tripped, okay? It was an easy fire. Lady had left a towel on the stove, husband accidentally turned it on, and the kitchen went up. We put the damn thing out in three minutes. Less, even.”
“So what did you trip on?” Casey asked.
“Her damn cat.” He clenched his teeth. “I went down, hit my chin on some stupid metal modern-art sculpture… thing.”
“I have to say, I’m relieved you’re not invincible. I was getting kinda spooked there.”
The doctor’s brows lifted. “What horrible fates have you barely escaped?”
“Falling four stories and getting pinned by a beam,” David said flatly. “This week.”
Her eyes widened. “You caught the ball? Well, I guess you were due a scratch. I’m almost done.”
“Good,” he said, “then I can get back to work.”
Casey shook his head. “No.”
“What do you mean? She’s gonna stitch me up, send me back in the game. Right, Doc?”
She shook her head. “He’s the boss, big guy. I just do the needlepoint.”
Casey had hi
s stubborn face on now. “You can’t work with stitches in your chin. It’s against policy. And even if it wasn’t, I’d still say no. You’re distracted, and you have a right to be. But I’m not putting your team in danger because you can’t concentrate.”
It was fair. He’d gone in, seen it was an easy fire and his mind had exploded three million different directions. Olivia, Kane, Zell, Lincoln Jefferson, that damn Web site and the boy who’d been at the fire… “I’m sorry, Captain. I know we’re shorthanded.”
“It’s okay. I should have seen the signs and told you to take a day off. I was preoccupied with Zell, too. Is he done?”
“He is. Go home, let your girl fuss over you. You’ll be back to work in a week.”
She left and David pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.” His head hurt and he was feeling really surly. And a little nauseous, too. Wonderful.
“Who’ll fuss over you?” Casey said. “Your girl’s a little busy right now.”
“I know. She was just here last night. This is where they brought Kane.”
“I know. That was my first thought when Carrie called and told me you were hurt and the medics were bringing you here. I’ll take you back to the firehouse to get your stuff and get the paperwork done. Your stitches have to be healed before you can come back. You’re officially on leave.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Wednesday, September 22, 10:30 a.m.
Olivia had hoped not to come back to the morgue today. She’d already had enough gut-churning for one morning. Feet like lead, she followed Noah through the hallways that seemed to grow narrower with each step.
Earlier this morning they’d met Ian in one of the offices up front to talk about Joel. This time they were going back to the autopsy suite. Somewhere in there, lay Kane.
Her heart pounding, she stopped, trying to slow her breathing. “Noah. Wait.”
He turned, surprised. “What’s wrong?”
It was humiliating, but somehow easier since she’d blurted it to Donahue that morning. “I’ve been getting panic attacks. Since the pit.”
Understanding softened his features. “What can I do?”