Deadly Heat

by Cynthia Eden

Kenton didn’t tense. “And what did you see outside?”

  “You.”

  Great.

  Kenton turned away. This wasn’t their guy.

  “Other… b-bastard didn’t help, but you—you c-came in…”

  Kenton glanced back. “What other bastard?”

  “Th-the one in the baseball cap… running… running down the street.”

  Not many joggers in that part of town.

  “Did you see the man’s face?” Peter asked.

  Ah, now that would be the big question.

  Larry gave a sad shake of his head.

  Fuck.

  The music blared, the drinks flowed, and the come-ons, well, came, but Lora sat in the back, cradling her beer and knowing that she really didn’t fit in at Mickey’s.

  She couldn’t laugh with the others anymore. Couldn’t flirt. Couldn’t tease. Because she always felt like she had to be on her guard.

  So tired of feeling eyes on me.

  Either she was going crazy—yeah, a possibility…

  Or somebody was screwing with her.

  Lifting the beer, she took a long swallow. Heather wouldn’t be showing up tonight. She’d gotten the text just moments ago, and Lora knew she’d be cutting out soon, too. Can’t be here alone.

  The band blared louder, voices laughed and cheered, and when she lowered the beer, he was there.

  GQ.

  She raised her brows and let her voice mock. “Well, if it isn’t the special agent man.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t mess with me, Lora.”

  Lora. She shouldn’t like the way he said her name. But with his deep voice, the name rolled on his tongue, and yes, okay, she could easily imagine him saying her name in that same way when they were alone.

  And naked.

  Too long without a lover.

  Her fingers curled around the chilled beer bottle. “What are you doing here?”

  He sat down beside her. Uninvited. It figured he’d do something like that. “You said you’d be here.” A pause. “And I needed to talk to you.”

  The guy still smelled good. Looked good. “So talk.” They were getting stares already. Lora caught the eye of Tony Long, one of the firefighters on her crew. He raised his beer bottle toward her.

  Ah, the night couldn’t get any better.

  The news about their little meeting would spread like wildfire. Because with cops and smoke eaters filling the room, the gossip vine would run fast.

  “I want your help.”

  She blinked and all semblance of bitch faded. “Uh, run that by me again?” Bitch was her defense mechanism, so what now?

  Those gray eyes were steady, and he seemed to inch closer. No, maybe he was just so big that he took up a lot of space. Her space. “I’m not leaving, not until I’m sure the area’s clear.”

  The tension in her shoulders eased. “Good.” Because Lora didn’t think the fires were going to stop, not until they stopped the pyro out there.

  “I want you to help me,” he said again. “I need a contact at the station. Someone to walk me through the crime scenes. Someone to tell me what the hell I’m looking at in the fire.” His arm stretched behind her, almost caging her. “I need you.”

  Her breath came, real slow. “You have to—you’ll have to get approval from my chief.” But the chief knew the score. He’d been the one to send her to Hyde.

  “Already got it.”

  So the agent worked fast.

  “Like I said… I need your help.”

  She hesitated because there was something there in his eyes. This wasn’t just about the cases. There was a dark awareness lurking in his gaze. A hunger, a need she understood.

  One that she shouldn’t be feeling.

  But one that stirred in her gut anyway. One that had her thighs tensing, her heart beating a little too fast, and hell, had her wanting.

  “Do you want to catch this guy?”

  “More than anything.” I can still hear the screams.

  “Then I guess for the time being…” He offered her his right hand. “We’ll be partners.”

  Her eyes held his. Slowly, she reached for that hand. His fingers curled around hers, warm and strong.

  A lick of heat shot right through her.

  His mouth hitched into a half smile. “I think I’m gonna like working with you, Lora Spade.”

  She pulled her hand back. “Working only, Kent.” The shortened version of his name rolled easily off her tongue. “Not screwing.”

  Just to be clear.

  He blinked. “Didn’t say anything about screwing.”

  “You didn’t have to.” A woman knew signals. His weren’t easy to miss. Even if he did a good job of keeping those eyes up and off her chest. “I’m not looking for a lover.”

  Just a killer.

  “Seems a shame…” That smile faded. “But I’m not asking you to work with me so we can fuck.”

  Ah, blunt. She could like that.

  Like him.

  But she wouldn’t.

  She didn’t want any more pain. Special Agent Kenton Lake was the kind of man who could hurt a woman. Because he was the kind who’d walk away when the job was done, and leave her in the ashes.

  Been there, not doing it again. No matter how sexy the package.

  “Then I guess you have yourself a partner.” Her smile was a little mean, and she knew it. “We will bring the guy down.”

  • • •

  Some habits were hard to break.

  He watched the man stumble down the street. The guy flashed cash at some punk kid and got a small bag in exchange.

  The kid vanished. His prey didn’t.

  He’d started to think about the man last night. Wonder about him. The guy had been pulled from the second story of that hell on LeRoy.

  How long had he been up there? What all had he seen? Heard?

  The flickers of fear had come then, and he wasn’t one given to fear.

  Larry Powell. Finding out the guy’s name had taken two minutes. Picking apart the guy’s life—five.

  Larry had made him change his plans. He wouldn’t have chosen tonight for the flames, but he couldn’t afford to wait. Not with Larry talking to the cops and that asshole agent.

  No time to waste.

  Larry scurried down the street, slinking and hiding like a rat in the dark.

  This rat wasn’t gettin’ away. Not this time.

  The fingers of his right hand rolled the match he carried.

  “I read the case files.” Kenton leaned back and heard the vinyl booth cushion groan as he motioned for the waitress. “Different accelerants were used in all the crimes, different points of origin for the fires—hell, even different structures.” The woman might not believe it, but he actually did his homework.

  On all of his cases.

  Because Kenton took one thing in this world very seriously, and that was his job with the Serial Services Division. When his boss, Keith Hyde, told him to jump, well, he touched the freaking sky. So when Keith had given him a stack of files and told him to hit the road—he’d hit it.

  “What can I get you?” the waitress asked, offering a broad smile.

  He pointed to Lora’s disappearing beer. “Same thing. Thanks.” Kenton waited for the woman to ease away, then he leaned in toward Lora. “Arsonists are like serial killers—”

  “Uh, come again?”

  “They like patterns.” So he’d been told by Monica Davenport, the SSD’s profiler extraordinaire. “They set their fires in a certain way, follow a kind of ceremony with them. This guy…” His fingers tapped on the tabletop. “He’s all over the place. There is no pattern.” If they were even looking at the same guy.

  “The victims are the pattern.” Her voice came, slow, certain, and with a smoky, husky edge that ran right over his flesh.

  Focus.

  But focus wasn’t that easy when she sat there, wearing a too-tight black tank top—really great breasts—and probably those hip-hugging jeans s
he’d had on at the morgue.

  And yeah, the woman had one fine body. Long, lean, but curvy in just the right places. Curvy in perfect places.

  Kenton cleared his throat and realized that by bringing her on as his partner of sorts, he’d set himself up for some suffering and long nights. “What about the vics? They were all different: a woman, an older guy, a firefighter—”

  He caught the slight wince on the last one. Of course, she would have known the guy. Probably worked with him. “Ah, Lora, sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “It doesn’t matter that the vics were different.” She shoved the beer away and tried to scoot away from him, too. Tried but failed. There wasn’t much room in the booth, and with that music blaring, he had to stay close to hear her. “That’s what Seth said. He thought the arsonist wasn’t the same at first because of every reason you’ve just given.”

  Ah, that’d be Seth MacIntyre, the lead county arson investigator. The guy was already on Kenton’s list of folks to contact ASAP.

  “I was there,” she said, “I saw what he did. And I know we’re looking at the same guy.”

  He stared down at her bent head. “Just what did he do?”

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “He trapped them, and then he let the fire kill them.”

  Another run-down building. Another drug hole for his prey to hide inside.

  But this time, he’d be careful. He’d do a sweep of the building and make absolutely sure no one else was lurking around.

  He pulled his ball cap low and tucked his match behind his left ear. He had some gasoline in his truck. Just waiting.

  He’d planned for Larry Powell. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his gloves and took his time putting them on. A guy couldn’t be too careful.

  Slowly, not making any sound, he crept toward the door. Just one story this time.

  And really, half his work was already done. The windows of the ramshackle drug house were boarded up, all of them sealed with wood except the one on the far right. The one his prey had used to sneak inside.

  The one he’d use, too.

  Bending, he eased through the opening and smiled. Oh, this place would burn so well.

  It was small inside, a tight, cramped space. The floor was littered with trash. A mattress had been shoved against the back wall and—ah, there was Larry. His prey rocked back and forth on the mattress, muttering.

  He crept toward Larry and whispered his name.

  Larry spun around, eyes wide, hands up.

  He eased back, narrowly missing a swipe from those flying hands. “Easy…”

  Larry blinked. “D-do I—do I know you, man?” It was dark inside, with thin strips of light coming in that one window. If the streetlights hadn’t been there, he could have worked in total darkness.

  He’d always liked the dark.

  His fingers curled into a fist. The leather stretched over his knuckles. “Maybe.” It didn’t really matter now if Larry had seen him at the last fire. The thrill of the hunt heated his blood. Power pumped through him. Rage. Hunger.

  Larry’s eyes widened. Bulged. “Wait! I—I saw you b-before… you—you’re the one—”

  He slammed his fist into Larry’s face.

  “For some arsonists, it’s all about the fire.” Lora’s beer was empty. She didn’t order another. “They like to watch the flames, like to see the burn.”

  “This guy doesn’t?” Kenton asked.

  “People are in the buildings he burns. He knows that; it’s why he picks the places.” Her palm flattened on the tabletop. “The first victim, Jennifer Langley, was in a second-story apartment. He jimmied her sprinklers so they wouldn’t work. Nailed her windows and her door shut. We had to beat our way inside with an ax.”

  Jennifer Langley. The Critical Care Unit nurse. Twenty-nine. He’d read the report on her, no criminal record, a woman who seemed to be well-liked by her neighbors, if not her coworkers. Apparently, they hadn’t thought the woman had the best bedside manner.

  Yeah, he’d read the facts, and seen what was left after the fire…

  Not much.

  “She was alive when the fire started. Her neighbors heard her calling for help.”

  Hell.

  “She tried to break her windows out—there was glass all over the scene, but on the second floor—” Lora shook her head. “She would have fallen right to concrete, not that she ever had the chance.”

  “The fire burned too fast.”

  “It came right for her. We hauled ass to get there, Kent, knocked down that door…”

  But they’d been too late.

  Her gaze dropped to the table.

  “You know about the fire triangle?”

  He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see the movement of his head. “For fires to burn, they need air, fuel, and heat.”

  “This guy manipulates the triangle, and he’s damn good at that manipulation. He punched holes in her roof so that more air would get in—and so the flames would burn faster.”

  And so that Jennifer Langley would have less chance of surviving.

  “For the fuel, well, he’d poured turpentine in three of the rooms in her place.” She bit her lip.

  “Turpentine?” It’d been in the report, but… “How’d you know that?”

  “We could tell he’d used an accelerant because of the way the floor was charred.” She exhaled slowly. “We ripped up some of the floorboards and baseboards, and we found a sample of the liquid. Seth sent it for analysis.”

  Right. Turpentine. “And the second victim?”

  “Tom.” She shook her head. “Tom Hatchen. He owned a garage here in town.” Lora glanced around the bar, then back at him. “Hatchen was working alone one night, late. Somehow,” her lips quirked, but there was no humor in her eyes, “the equipment he was using malfunctioned and an engine fell on his legs, breaking them. Pinning him.”

  Shit. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  “The killer did that. He set up the whole fucking scene.” Her voice heated. “He left the guy caught like a rat in a trap, then used Hatchen’s own supplies—motor oil and gas—to soak the joint.” Her fingers drummed on the table. “But before he lit the match, the sick fuck called 911.”

  Kenton stilled. He knew this, but hearing the fury boiling in Lora’s husky voice froze him.

  “He told us that we had ten minutes or Tom would burn.” She licked her lips. “We were there in eight but the fire was already burning strong.”

  And a man was dying.

  • • •

  He snapped the handcuff onto Larry’s wrist. Larry would wake up soon enough. He closed the other cuff around a pipe connected to an old radiator.

  Perfect.

  Time for a quick trip to the truck.

  As he hurried out, he glanced at his watch. How long would he give them this time? The fire station was close by, but he planned to make this fire burn fast.

  His gaze swept the street. Deserted.

  He grabbed the container that he’d carefully prepared and loped back toward the building.

  He poured some lighter fluid just inside the doorway. This line would ignite later. He’d start the fire in the center. Give Larry a nice show.

  The fire was so beautiful, especially up close.

  “Wh-what the hell?” Larry’s scream.

  He glanced up and smiled.

  “What are y-you doin’?” Larry wrenched at the handcuff. “Why the fuck you got m-me cuffed? What the fuck—”

  He threw a stream of lighter fluid onto him.

  Larry choked and sputtered.

  Now he hefted the red container he’d retrieved from the truck. He lifted the container higher, and the gasoline spilled out in fat waves.

  “Stop! Please, f-fuck, stop! Let me go, man, let me g-go—”

  Some people couldn’t die fast enough. He kept a tight hold on his container—he’d be taking that with him—and yanked out the disposable cell he’d purchased.

  Nine.
One. One.

  “Let me go!”

  No.

  “Charlie Skofield.” Her shoulders tensed a bit when she said his name. “He’d been in a car accident about four months back. Christ, it was one of the worst ones I’ve seen.”

  He hadn’t realized that she’d been there.

  “The driver—she never had a chance. When I got there, she was already bleeding out, slipping away even as she asked for her kids.” Lora’s breath was ragged. “We had to use the jaws of life to pry out Skofield. Some people didn’t think it was fair that he survived.”

  Kenton’s eyes narrowed. “Not fair? Why?”

  “There was no official ruling but…” Her lips tightened. “I know an alcohol-related crash when I see one.”

  Yeah, he bet she did.

  “He survived and a mother of two died, but Skofield… he was paralyzed from the waist down.”

  The crowd had begun to thin. Final rounds were being called as more folks headed for the door.

  “When we broke the door in at Charlie’s place, the first thing I saw was his wheelchair, just sitting right there.”

  Kenton bet poor Charlie had been somewhere else. Somewhere much closer to the fire.

  “We searched and finally found him. Charlie was on the floor. He wasn’t moving, but the flames hadn’t touched him yet. He’d poured a line of accelerant to circle Charlie.” Her eyes glinted. “This guy knows how to work the fire. He lets those flames rage, and he sets up his victims so that the smoke doesn’t kill them.”

  Kenton knew smoke inhalation was often the cause of death at a fire scene.

  “He sets up a burn line with his accelerants. He controls the fire and makes it burn just where he wants.”

  The better to make his victims suffer.

  “With Skofield, the fire—orange gold and so hot—was rolling near the ceiling above him. I knew that roof was gonna fall. We didn’t have much time to pull him out of that room.”

  He knew how the story ended. Charlie hadn’t made it out alive.

  Neither had Carter Creed. “You went in anyway.”

  Her tongue swiped over her lips, a quick move that had his body tightening when he shouldn’t be thinking about sex. About fire and death, yeah, but not sex. Not now.

  “Carter went in.” Pain there. “Carter was lead; he ran in first.” He heard the hard click of her swallow. “Then the roof fell in.”