I immediately pulled out my cell phone and sent a text to Rosa, requesting a CODIS search on Ethel Farmer. If Kandyce was telling the truth, then that would be too big a coincidence to ignore.
Kandyce watched me, a quizzical look on her face. “Do you think Patrick is the arsonist who has been setting all these fires?”
“Yes, I do. And I think you’re helping him.” There, all the cards are out on the table now. Time to see if she folds or ups the ante.
“Oh, shit. You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with that.” Her knee was bouncing nervously. “Like I said, I haven’t seen him since he murdered my mother.”
“And your half-sister? When did you see her last?” I already knew it was yesterday, but I wanted Kandyce to connect the dots for me.
“I don’t have a half-sister. I have a twin brother named Kevin, and three cousins in Boulder that I think of as siblings, but that’s it.”
“So you’re telling me that you didn’t know Robbie was your stepsister?”
“Really? No, that can’t be.”
“Patrick is her biological father.”
“No shit? Damn, what a small world. Where is she? I’d love to talk with her about it.”
Just as I was about to answer, the fire alarm sounded. A grass fire in a vacant lot. Nothing for me to be involved with, but Kandyce would have to go.
“I’ve got to go. Are we finished here?” she asked, jumping up and slipping her suspenders over her shoulders.
“We’re not finished, but you can go. I still have more questions.”
“Yeah, so have I,” she quipped as she ran out the door.
I couldn’t detain her based on our conversation. I needed hard evidence, which I didn’t have on any of my suspects. I picked up the evidence board and placed it back on the table. Then I took the red Sharpie and wrote Kandyce’s name on the Post-it note. I pinned it to the board and stepped back. Video guy, Patrick, Scott, and Kandyce. That doesn’t belong there anymore, I thought as I pulled Scott’s name down. Studying the board, I shook my head in frustration. I was no closer to finding the killer than I was before. Something had to give, and soon.
Picking up the hardware bag, I took out a digital door lock with a set of keys, four AA batteries, a remote control, and a screwdriver. This office would have to be under lock and key from now on, with only Uncle Joe having the other key. It was sad but necessary that it be done. I couldn’t have my cases compromised, ever again. As I worked on the door, my mind began to wander to places I wished it wouldn’t. Where was she right now? What was she doing? Probably landing at JFK right about now. Would someone be waiting for her? Someone to replace me? “Shit!” I jabbed the screwdriver into my thumb, puncturing the skin. You were never hers to begin with, dumbass.
Programming, then testing the door and pocketing the remote control, I turned my attention to my laptop next. This time, no one but me would have the password to my computer. From now on, my office, my files, and my laptop were off limits to everyone. I just hoped that I could remember all these damn passwords.
I leaned back in the chair and propped my feet up on the desk. With all my errands done, my body reminded me how late it was. Actually, how early it was. Scott’s funeral would be in a few hours and then my mom wanted to see her house. It was going to be a heavy, emotional day.
“Jordy, are you in there?”
My eyelids popped open even though my eyes were still asleep. My heart pumped out adrenaline to wake me up, though I tried to resist.
“Jordy, open up, damn it.”
It was Uncle Joe, pounding on the door. Why doesn’t he just come in?
“Did you put this new lock on the door?”
“Oh, shit. Yeah, hold your horses,” I yelled, swinging my stiff legs off the desk. My feet were still asleep and the pins and needles stabbing the souls of my feet causing me to stumble across the room. Opening the door to a frowning Uncle Joe, I stepped aside, allowing him to walk in. He was obviously in a testy mood.
“Yes, I put a new lock on the door,” I said, handing a key to him. “Only you and I will have access to my office now.”
“Another key to carry, great, thanks,” he quipped, unclipping his keys from his belt.
“So, what’s up?” I asked as I stretch the kinks out of my bones.
“You tell me. How’d it go with Kandyce? Can we trust her?”
“It’s inconclusive right now.”
“Jordy, I can’t risk my people’s lives on that. Give me something.”
“If she is the mole, we won’t see her again. She’ll hightail it out of here, faster than you can blink an eye. She knows I know who her stepfather is, and I am suspicious of her. She knows she will never have another free moment at this station because she’ll be watched, like a hawk after its prey. If she sticks around and wants to talk more about it then I will believe she is trustworthy and just a poor kid caught up in a scheme she knew nothing about.”
“That’s a whole lot of ifs to be risking our lives on,” Uncle Joe said, staring intently at the evidence board. “What’s your plan?”
“Uncle Joe,” I said wearily, slumping back in the chair. “I honestly don’t know. Every lead I follow ends up a dead end. I’ve got no hard evidence for any of my suspects.”
Uncle Joe looked at me and exhaled. He pulled up a chair and sat beside me. His eyes were hard, but kind. His brow was furrowed, but it wasn’t from worry. “I’ve been remiss in my godfather duties.”
“How so?” I asked.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve given you a pep talk.”
“It’s been a long time since you’ve needed to,” I replied.
“Nevertheless, here goes. Remember when you were ten, and you hid in the tool compartment of the fire engine, and rode it to a four-alarm fire?”
“Oh, yeah. That was my first time on a truck. It was fantastic.”
“But how did you figure out where to hide so no one would see you?”
“I would watch them open the compartments when they were washing the truck.”
“So, you were an investigator, even then,” Uncle Joe stated with a smile.
My eyes twinkled at the compliment. I guess, in a way, I was investigating the truck. I was a very curious ten-year old.
“And do you remember what happened when your father found out?”
My smile vanished, as I remembered my father’s rage. That was the only time in my life that he ever yelled at me in front of others and with such anger. I shivered, just thinking about it. “Oh, yeah. I remember. He yelled so loud St. Louis could hear him.”
“And do you know why he yelled?”
“Because he was really disappointed with me.”
“Did you really think that?”
I shrugged. “Uh… I guess so” I still do. I’ve carried that thought with me like an albatross around my neck.
“Your father and I had a beer after work that day and he asked me if I thought the punishment was too severe. I told him that if you were my kid, I would also have you wash the truck for a month.”
“Seriously? Damn, that’s harsh, Uncle Joe.”
“Relax, it was a joke. Henry knew I loathed washing the truck and it was my month to do it. Anyway, the night of your little stunt, he told me how proud he was of you.”
“Proud of me? He sure didn’t show it.”
“No, he wouldn’t, would he? Not if he wanted to teach you a lesson. A firetruck is a dangerous apparatus and not a playground for ten-year olds. But when he asked you what you had to say for yourself, you looked him square in the eye and said you wanted to be a firefighter like he was, and you were just trying to help.”
“I’ll never be as good as he was.” I sighed with recognition.
“Nor should you be. Otherwise, who would you compare yourself to, right? Unless, maybe you stop trying to fill your father’s shoes and just be the best person that you can be.”
As a kid, and I guess as an adult, too, I worshiped the ground
my father walked on. He could do no wrong, in my eyes, even when he yelled at me. I always wanted to be like him and walk in his shoes, but I also always knew that his shoes were too big for me to fill. Maybe Uncle Joe was right.
“Besides, you wear boots, anyway” he added with a smirk and slapped me on the shoulder. He stood up and moved the chair away. “Breakfast is ready, let’s eat.”
After breakfast, I took a shower and changed clothes. I needed to go to Germantown and pick up my mother, so I went ahead and put on my dress blues. I kept my dress uniform at the station because the dry cleaners I used was just a block away. I taped a black ribbon over my badge and pinned it to my uniform. At my father’s funeral, though I wasn’t a firefighter yet, I did the same thing with his badge and helmet. I wore the badge over my heart and carried his helmet throughout the procession. Two honor guards with white caps and belts, wearing a red shoulder cord over their left arms, stood at attention beside his casket, draped in an American flag. The commissioner spoke of my father’s gallantry, the mayor spoke of his benevolence, and the preacher read from the Holy Bible.
Then I went to the podium and recited the Fireman’s Prayer by A. W. Smokey Linn. When I am called to duty, God, whenever flames may rage, give me the strength to save some life, whatever be its age. My mother cried as I delivered the words from memory. She cried when the pallbearers lifted my father’s casket onto the engine truck draped in black piping. And she cried as the bagpiper led us out of the church and walked us down the street to the cemetery. White gloves snapped to white caps as firefighters from as far away as Canada stood at attention when my father’s casket passed by.
At the graveside, the preacher said a prayer, the honor guard gave a rifle salute, someone played TAPS as the flag was folded and given to my mother. As they lowered my father into the ground, the bagpiper played “Amazing Grace,” and I cried.
I walked out of my office fiddling with my tie. There wasn’t a mirror in my office and honestly, it was rare that I even needed to look in one.
“You clean up real nice,” Larry said, looking me up and down.
“You might think about doing the same,” I quipped, noticing his grimy T-shirt and water-stained trousers.
“That’s where I’m headed now. I was giving the old girl a bath so she’ll look nice for the funeral.”
“Thanks for doing that, Larry,” I said, as I walked over to Uncle Joe’s office. Tapping on the doorframe, I leaned in and said, “I’m headed out to pick up Mom, shouldn’t take longer than an hour. I’ll be back in plenty of time for the funeral.”
“All right. Meet up with us at the church,” he said, reaching for the remote control to the television.
“Copy that,” I responded, walking out the door.
My car was still parked on the street where Robbie had left it. Where she had left the note. Unlocking the door using the remote, I checked the back seat as I always do, and spotted my helmet. The one I had loaned to her. I picked it up to put it in the trunk when I felt something sticky on it. The helmet was black so it was hard to see what the stickiness was. I rubbed my thumb over it and then looked at it. Red, like raspberries, only it didn’t smell like fruit. A cold sweat trickled down my back as I realized what it was. Blood. Robbie’s blood.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Roberta Witherspoon
I never liked the dark. It always felt claustrophobic, suffocating, with a sense of impending doom. In this case, that would be an understatement. Now, sitting here in complete darkness, as if I were sitting in the Cimmerian caverns with a mythical people who liked it dark and gloomy, I was fighting the tears still cascading over my eyelids. They say your life flashes before your eyes just before you die, and I guess that’s so. Except my life didn’t flash by, it slowly scrolled by with deliberate, emotional symbolism. I unintentionally put myself out there on the market and she was with someone else. Then she wasn’t, but now she thinks I ran away, too. If I were her, I’d never look at another woman again. But I needed her to figure out the truth. I needed someone, anyone to figure it out and save me.
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized that it wasn’t as dark as I thought. The red glow of the digital timer became my lighthouse. The timer would always keep me oriented toward the door and that was a huge relief. It was my beacon of hope, which was eerie since it would also cause my death.
I tried picking the lock on the leg cuff again, but all I had were my fingernails and they splintered and broke very quickly. Again, I screamed until my throat was raw and my voice was gone. Nothing was working. I needed to think outside the box, be clever and cunning. I could just barely see my hands in front of my face, but at least they were free to feel inside my pockets, hoping at least that my keys were still there. I knew they weren’t, because they were in my purse, and that bastard took my purse.
Okay, so my keys were out, what else did I have on me? Hooks in my bra… nope, wasn’t wearing one today. The thought immediately took my mind to Jordy’s nimble fingers. I could still feel her warm lips on my nipple. God, how I wished I could feel them now. No, no, no. Concentrate. What else. My boots. The boot laces had a plastic tip on them, maybe I could use them. Maybe I could tie the boot laces together and hook them to my boot, then throw it at the timer. If I could knock it off or break it, in theory, that should stop the thing from triggering a fire.
I crossed a leg over the opposite knee to pull the lace from the boot, then repeated to remove the lace from the other boot. The laces were double the length because I liked to wrap them around the top of the boot once before tying them. Jerry taught me that. Well, he didn’t actually teach it to me, I just copied what I saw him doing. I tied the laces together, testing that they were tight, and I pulled my boot off and tied one end to it. I stood up, and without the boot, the cold steel of the cuff banged against my ankle bone. That’s going to leave a bruise. “And I hope I live to see it,” I said, as I angled myself toward the corner that he set the coffee pot and walked as far as the chain would allow. Then, I rocked the boot back and forth until I had enough momentum to send it flying across the floor. It landed with a thud and bounced a couple of times. I didn’t hear glass breaking or metal screeching so I knew I hadn’t hit anything.
Just as I was building up momentum to try again, the door screeched open and sunlight streamed down into the pit, blinding me for a moment. The first thing I thought was that someone had come to rescue me. “Jordy!”
“Sorry, kitten, it’s not Jordy,” the deep voice declared. I knew it was Patrick before I saw him. He called me kitten when I was a child and again at my hotel.
“Patrick, please, let me go,” I begged.
“There, see, she’s just fine,” my tormentor’s voice said from the doorway.
“Let her go, Junior,” Patrick said as he descended the stairs. “This is not what I wanted.”
On the last step, his knees seemed to buckle and he fell to the floor, lying motionless. Did he trip or was he pushed? What the hell? Junior had hit him on the head with something. Patrick called him Junior, so at least I knew he was a he, not that it got me any closer to freedom.
“Daddy’s not going to be happy with me when he wakes up,” Junior quipped and I saw the gun in his hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked incredulously. “Why did you hit him?”
“You know, sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you cannot make your father proud of you,” Junior said, pocketing the gun. Using both hands, he dragged Patrick to the wall behind me. “So, fuck it. I’m done trying,” he added as he pulled out chains and handcuffs, the type used for prisoner transport. He shackled Patrick’s legs and hands in such a way that Patrick wouldn’t be able to stand up.
“Get him out of here,” I demanded, twisting around in my chair. “I don’t want that bastard in here with me.”
“It’s poetic, really. Father and daughter reunited at last, only to die in a horrible fire. I must come back and film that. Oh, wait. I will be here, pretending
to help put the fire out. Now that is genius, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re a sick bastard and need serious psychological help.” I knew he would hit me for it, but I was past caring. Surprisingly, he laughed that sinister laugh of his and walked out, leaving me locked up in the dark with Patrick.
My father was a murderer. My half-brother was a murderer. So where did that leave me in this murderous gene pool? Would I eventually go insane, as well? There were different levels of insanity. Patrick’s was greed and drugs. I think Junior’s insanity was brought on by my father brainwashing him with physical abuse. You’re the daughter of a firefighter. Jerry had more parental influence on you than Patrick ever could or will. You are who you are because of Jerry and your mother. Never forget that.” Jordy’s words were like a salve to a gaping wound. She was right. My influences were always very supportive and loving. I was never spanked or degraded. I was told I could do anything I set my mind to. Now, I wondered if they had set me up to fail. Defeatist words, I knew, but I was trapped in a black hole, with a murderer chained up behind me. And what was worse was that he was starting to wake up. The cruelest torture yet.
“What… what happened?” he asked.
“Your son is tired of trying to make you proud,” I jibed, feeling somewhat vindicated. I could hear chains rattling. Even though I couldn’t see him, I knew he was discovering his predicament. “By the way, Junior set a timer and in something like thirty hours or so, we will both be dead. Jeez, go have kids, right?” I wish he could have seen the sarcastic scorn on my face.
“He wouldn’t dare,” Patrick growled in the dark.
“And yet, here you are,” I said mockingly. I no longer feared him, now that I knew he couldn’t hurt me. “Have you ever considered why your children hate you so much?”
“They don’t hate me. They fear me, as they should, but they love me, too.”
“I hate you more than I can articulate. And Junior hates you so much he’s trying to kill you. Why do you think that is?”
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