by Karen Rose
“No. We were a meat and potatoes family.”
He’d stopped at the window and now stood looking between the bars, his expression pensive. “So were we, after.”
His mood had altered dramatically in the minutes they’d been here. “After what?”
He threw a look over his shoulder. “After I went to live with the Sollidays.”
The look was a guarded one that warned her to proceed cautiously. “They adopted you out of the foster care system?”
He nodded, turning back to the window. “I’d been in four homes before they took me in. I’d run away from the last two. I was too close to being sent to a place like this.”
“Then we owe the Sollidays a great deal,” she said softly and watched him swallow.
“Yes, we do.” He turned and sat on the arm of one of the chairs. “I do.”
“Sometimes there’s a fine line between going good and going bad. One good experience, one kind soul can make all the difference in the world.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “I still think good people deal and bad people don’t.”
“Way too simple. But we’ll save that debate for another day. Somebody’s coming.”
The door opened and Mia found herself looking at the woman from the video. She was very young. “Miss Adler?” she asked and the woman nodded, eyes wide. Scared.
Adler stepped into the room, Bixby behind her. “Yes. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Detective Mitchell and this is my partner, Lieutenant Solliday. We’d like to talk to you,” Mia said evenly. “Would you step outside with us?”
Bixby cleared his throat. “It’s cold, Detectives. We’d be more comfortable in here.”
“I’m not a detective,” Solliday inserted smoothly. “I’m a fire marshal.”
The color drained from Adler’s face and Bixby looked down at her with a frown. “Miss Adler, what’s happened?”
She clenched her hands together. “Did Bart Secrest talk to you yesterday?”
Bixby’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “What have you done, Miss Adler?”
It was a not-so-subtle move to distance himself from his employee. Flinching, Adler moistened her lips. “I just went to see one of the houses in the articles. That’s all.”
Mia took a step forward. “Um, hello? We’d like to know what’s going on here, now.”
Dr. Bixby leveled Mia a stern look that she imagined would have reduced the trembling Miss Adler to tears before briskly moving to the telephone on the wooden desk. “Marcy, can you call Bart and Julian? Have them meet us in my office right away.”
“Miss Adler, we’d like to talk to you alone, first,” Mia insisted. “We won’t be long. Although we’d be happy to wait while you get a coat.” She held the door open, ignoring the director, who’d opened his mouth but closed it without saying a word.
Adler shook her head. “No, I’ll be all right.”
Wednesday, November 29, 1:25 P.M.
He could see the parking lot from the window. He stood there now, watching as three people left the building to stand in the sun. Two had gone in. A woman and a man. The woman was Detective Mia Mitchell. He recognized her from her picture in the paper. The man then could only be Lieutenant -Solliday. His heart would continue to beat normally. He would not lose his head.
They were talking to Brooke Adler, because she’d gone to the fire scene, the idiot. Not because they knew anything. They had nothing. No evidence. No suspects. So there was no reason to fear. They could search the whole school and find nothing, because there wasn’t anything here. He smiled. Except me.
Mitchell and Solliday would have their little talk with Adler, learn what everyone else already knew—the new -English teacher was an insignificant, airheaded little mouse. With, he had to admit, exceptional breasts. He’d often had thoughts about her body—enjoying it, even allowing her to enjoy it. But now, all that would have to change. At least the part about her enjoying it. For bringing them here, she’d have to pay.
But the fun would need to wait. Right now there were cops on the property. But they wouldn’t stay long. When they were satisfied there was nothing here, Mitchell and -Solliday would leave. And I’ll go on. Tonight he’d finish Mrs. -Dougherty. He was already getting excited thinking about the new challenge.
But again, the fun would need to wait. Right now, he had someplace to be.
Wednesday, November 29, 1:25 P.M.
Brooke willed her teeth not to chatter as the cop looked her up and down scathingly.
“You were at our crime scene yesterday evening,” she began sharply. “Why?”
“I...” She wet her lips and felt them burn dry from the cold air. “I was curious.”
“Are you nervous, Miss Adler?” the fire marshal asked gently. Brooke didn’t watch much television, but she’d seen enough to know the man was the good cop. The small, blond woman played the bad cop very well.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said, but she sounded guilty, even to her own ears. “If you’d go inside, we can explain everything to you.”
“We will soon,” the fire marshal said. His name was -Lieutenant Solliday. She needed to remember that. She needed to remember she hadn’t done anything wrong and stop acting like an idiot. “But first, tell us why you went to the burned-out house last night.” His smile was kind. “We caught you on the ten o’clock news.”
She’d had a bad feeling when she’d seen herself on the news. Her biggest fear had been that Bixby or Julian would see her. This was worse. “I told you, I was curious. I’d read about the fires and I wanted to see them for myself.”
“So who is Bart Secrest and what did he tell Bixby?” the woman asked.
“Please ask Dr. Bixby.” She looked over her shoulder. Dr. Bixby was standing just inside the front door with a scowl. “You’re going to get me fired,” she murmured.
Solliday smiled, still kindly. “We’ll haul you downtown if you keep wasting our time.”
She blinked at the clash between his kind tone and harsh words. Her heart was beating hard and she was sweating despite the cold. “You can’t. I didn’t do anything.”
“Watch us,” he said softly. “Two women are dead, Miss Adler. Maybe you know something useful and maybe you don’t. If you do, you’ll tell us. If you don’t, you’ll stop whatever game you’re playing because every minute we stand here is a minute he has to plan another attack. I’ll ask you again. Why did you go to the burned-out house?”
Her mouth went dry. Two women, dead. “One of our students was clipping the articles from the paper about the two fires. I reported him to Bart Secrest, our security dean. The rest you’ll have to get from him.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Him, who? Him, Secrest or him, the student?”
Brooke closed her eyes, visualizing the cold expression on Manny’s face that morning. She doubted anyone would be able to pry anything out of Manny now. “Secrest,” she said and shivered hard. “I’ve honestly told you everything I can.” The two detectives shared a glance and Lieutenant Solliday nodded.
“All right, Miss Adler,” the detective said. “Let’s go talk to Dr. Bixby.”
Wednesday, November 29, 1:30 P.M.
Bixby was waiting for them in the lobby. The look he shot Adler was cold and Mia couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the woman.
He led them to an office as rich as the waiting room had been sparse. He gestured to leather chairs around a -mahogany conference table. Two men were already seated. One was in his mid-forties with a kindly face. The other looked like he bashed in walls with his bald head for fun. “Dr. Julian Thompson and Mr. Bart Secrest,” Bixby said.
The nice-faced one rose, a smile creasing his face. Immediately Mia distrusted him as much as Bixby. “I’m Dr. Thompson, the school’s counselor.”
Secrest just scowled and said nothing.
“Sit,” Bixby said. He drummed his fingers while he waited for them to do so. Mia took a few extra seconds, just to watch Bixby frown. Fin
ally she sat next to him.
Mia looked at each of the men. “Who is the student and where are the articles?”
The counselor hid his flinch, but not well. Secrest continued to scowl.
“We investigated the student and saw no need to pursue the matter. Miss Adler felt some... personal need to view the scene herself, likely due to her sense of compassion for the victims. Isn’t that right, Miss Adler?” Bixby asked.
Adler nodded unsteadily. “Yes, sir.”
Mia smiled. “Uh-huh. You’re contracted by the state, aren’t you, Dr. Bixby? Subject to state audits and surprise visits by the licensing board?”
Bixby’s jaw tightened. “Please don’t threaten me, -Detective.”
Mia looked at Solliday, amused. “I’m starting to hear an echo. So many people telling me not to threaten them.”
“Maybe because everyone we’ve talked to has known something we needed to know, but didn’t want to tell us,” he said, very quietly. Almost ominously. His tone was perfect.
“That must be it.” She leaned forward, sliding her palm flat on the table until she could look up into Bixby’s face. It was a power-shifting move that she normally found very effective. Judging by the annoyed flicker in Bixby’s eyes, it was effective once more. “I wonder what you know, Dr. Bixby. You said you investigated. I assume this means you didn’t think this student was clipping articles for a school book report.”
“As I told Miss Adler,” Solliday said in the same ominous tone, “we have two women in the morgue. Our patience is
thin. If your student is not involved, we’ll be on our way. If he is, he’s a danger to the rest of your students. You don’t want that kind of publicity.”
A muscle in Bixby’s jaw twitched and Mia knew Solliday had hit the right chord. “The student does not leave this facility. There is no way he could be involved.”
“All right,” Mia said, relaxing. “Tell us about the facility. Do all students live here?”
“Twenty percent are day students,” Dr. Thompson said. “The rest are residential.”
Mia smiled. “Residential. That means they’re locked up?”
Thompson’s returned smile was strained. “It means they can’t leave. They are not locked in cells as they would be in a jail, no.”
Mia widened her eyes. “You never let them outside?” She blinked. “Ever?”
Bixby’s eyes flashed. “Residential students are given supervised time outdoors.”
“The exercise yard,” Mia said and Bixby’s cheeks burned. Mia held up her hand. “I know, this isn’t a jail. But your neighbors wouldn’t be happy to know that a possible murderer was right here, less than a mile from their homes. From their children.”
“Because there isn’t,” Bixby said tightly. “I’ve told you already.”
“And we heard you the first time,” Solliday said mildly. He looked over at Mia, one dark brow lifted. “You know you did promise Carmichael she’d be the first to know.”
She beamed at him, in perfect accord. “Yes, I did.”
Secrest leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “That’s extortion.”
“Who is Carmichael?” Bixby asked.
“The reporter who wrote the article in yesterday’s -Bulletin,” Secrest said.
Thompson’s mouth fell open. “You can’t give false information.”
Mia shrugged. “She asks me where I’ve been. I’ll tell her I’ve been here. No lie. Sometimes she even follows me around, looking for news. She might be outside your gates as we speak. I guess as publicity goes, that would suck. The whole not-in-my-backyard thing and all.” She stared Bixby down. “And your total lack of cooperation will affect your standing with the state. I’ll see that it does.”
Bixby looked ready to explode. He hit a button on the intercom. “Marcy, pull Manuel Rodriguez’s file.” He jabbed the button. “I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I hope I am, too,” Mia said with all sincerity. “So do the families of my two victims.”
Thompson’s face had gone florid. “Manny’s an innocent young man.”
Mia lifted her brows. “He’s here, Dr. Thompson. He’s obviously not that innocent.”
“He didn’t set these fires,” Thompson insisted.
“You searched Manny’s room, Mr. Secrest?” Solliday asked, ignoring the counselor.
“I did.” Secrest’s eyes were like stone.
Mia lifted her brows. “And?”
“And I found a book of matches.”
“Were any missing?” Solliday pressed. “And to save us time, if yes, how many?”
“Several. But the matchbook had been used by someone else.”
She noticed a twitch in Thompson’s cheek. “Do you know where he got them?” she asked. From the corner of her eye she saw Secrest roll his eyes.
“He took them from Dr. Thompson’s office,” Secrest said. “He smokes a pipe.”
Mia leaned back in her chair. “Bring Mr. Rodriguez to us, please.” Everyone stood. “Miss Adler, please remain.” She looked at Bixby. “Alone.”
When the doors were closed, Mia turned to Adler, who was pale. “Now tell us why you went to Penny Hill’s house.”
She licked her lips. “I told you. I was curious. Because of the articles.”
Solliday shook his head. “No. We saw you, Miss Adler, on the video. You didn’t look curious. You looked like you felt guilty.”
“It was the book.” In her eyes Mia saw pure, unadulterated misery. “I assigned Lord of the Flies right before Thanksgiving. Right before the first fire.” She pursed her lips hard. “Right before the first woman was killed.”
“Interesting timing,” Solliday murmured. “Still, why go to the victim’s house?”
“I needed to know what the police knew. To know if I’d done... caused...”
Mia frowned at Solliday. “I’m missing the connection to the book,” she murmured.
“Lord of the Flies,” he murmured back. “Teens stranded on an island without adults descend into anarchy. They have a signal fire. Later they burn most of the island down.”
“Oh. Dots connected.” Mia turned her attention back to Adler, who sat quietly, tears running down her face. “Was that really a good choice of a book here?”
“Dr. Bixby approved it, encouraged it even. He wanted to observe the students’ reactions. I offered to assign a different one, but Julian said it would be useful in Manny’s therapy.” She struggled for control. “All I could think was ‘What if I caused him to do this? What if my book gave him the idea?’ And then there was another fire and another woman died. What if those women are dead because I got him started?”
Solliday sighed. “If Manny did this, you are not responsible, Miss Adler.”
“I’ll believe you when you find out who really did it. Can I go now?”
“Sure,” Mia said, more inclined to be gentle now. “Don’t leave town, okay?”
Adler’s smile was thin and bitter. “Somehow I thought you’d say that.” She shut the door hard, leaving Mia and -Solliday sitting side by side. Solliday looked around the ceiling and the walls, then abruptly bent close to Mia’s ear.
“This could be a wild-goose chase,” he murmured. “A waste of time.”
A shiver raced down her back, unexpected and hard as his heat warmed her and the scent of him filled her head. Unbidden, her body tightened, as the memory of him lying on top of her shoved at her logical thought. She made herself focus and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “Maybe. But we’re here. Other than boxes of files, this is all we have. Cops, social workers, angry kids... And these guys are hiding something. I’ve got a feeling about all this.” And that, she told herself, would be cop instinct and not the fact that her cheek still tingled from where his beard had brushed against her skin.
The door opened and Bixby appeared. “Manny is being brought up front. I will stay with him through your questioning as he is a minor. Is there anything else you require?”
Solliday stood up. “We’d like t
o search the boy’s room ourselves.”
Bixby nodded stiffly. “As you wish.”
Mia’s lips curved. “Your... cooperation is noted, Dr. Bixby. Keep Manny here while we do our search. We’ll come back to talk to him when we’re ready.”
Wednesday, November 29, 2:45 P.M.
Reed stifled a sigh as Bixby led Manny Rodriguez from the room. A search of his room had turned up nothing and Manny was as closed as any youth he’d ever met. “If he did it, he’s not giving anything up. But I don’t think he did. I think we just wasted an afternoon chasing an English teacher with an overdeveloped sense of guilt.”
“Win some, lose some.” Mia shrugged into that godawful coat. It looked worse from the slide on the pavement she’d taken last night. “Let’s go back and hit the files.”
Reed held the door, then followed her to the front desk where a grim-faced Marcy was ready to sign them out. He walked by the front display cases, then stopped when something shiny caught his eye. He backed up a few steps and stared, his pulse picking up a few beats. “Mia, look at this.”
She stared at the students’ displayed art. “Interesting painting,” she said, her eyes taking in the row at her eye level. It was dark with a hint of insanity.
“Look up,” Reed said and she did. “Higher,” he said and she blinked.
“Well, well.” She rocked herself on her toes to get a better view of one budding artist’s rendition of a Fabergé egg tucked away on the top row. It sparkled with intricate beads and crystals set in geometric patterns. “Pretty. I wish I could get closer to see.”
“You want a boost?” he asked and she shot him a glare, but her eyes were amused.
“Smart-ass,” she muttered. “It took one hell of a chicken to lay that egg.”
“I think the chicken had some help.” He bent close to her ear. “It’s the right size.”
“And the right color,” she murmured. “I think we need a warrant. I’ll take care of it.”
His smile was satisfied. “And I’ll tell Dr. Bixby that we’ll be staying a little longer.”
She walked away, flipping open her cell phone. “Damn, you get to have all the fun.”
Wednesday, November 29, 3:15 P.M.