by Rita Herron
Bradford nodded. “I’m on it.”
Determined to find concrete evidence and a suspect, Bradford spent the afternoon researching databases for similar cases across the country.
A global search on arsonists with prior convictions, especially paroles recently released, turned up two names in the southeast area. Barry Coker and Stuart Lumpkin. Only according to the police reports, the men’s MOs were different than their current UNSUB. Coker used gasoline while Lumpkin preferred handmade explosives.
But Bradford would check them out anyway. If one of these felons had resurfaced, he might have altered his MO to mislead the police.
Coker was released six months before and was living in South Georgia, in Vidalia.
Vidalia wasn’t too far from Savannah.
The other man, Lumpkin, lived in the mountains of Tennessee.
Bradford placed calls to both men’s parole officers, explaining the circumstances and asking them to locate the men, and have the locals check their alibis.
He checked the system again, and one more name appeared—Johnny Walsh, his little brother. Nineteen years old, serving time in the Atlanta Pen for burning down a juvenile facility last year, the same one where he’d been sent when he was fifteen to get his act together. Three kids’ lives had been lost. Johnny was serving twenty-five to life.
If he was ever released he would be middle-aged. His youth would be gone. Career goals impossible.
Not that Johnny had had any career goals.
The familiar ache that assaulted him when he thought of his lost family nearly crippled him, but he forced himself back to the task at hand. He’d stopped Johnny from setting more fires and taking additional lives, and he had to stop this guy, too.
Erring on the safe side, he phoned the prison where Johnny was locked up and asked to speak to the warden. “Warden LaGrange, this is Detective Walsh. How’s my brother?”
“You heard about the fire?”
Bradford clenched the phone with a white-knuckled grip. “What fire?”
“Your brother set one last week in his cell, and was injured. He’s in the infirmary now. The doctors say he’ll make it, but he suffered burns on his hands and face, and is bandaged and sedated now.”
Bradford wheezed an anguished breath.
“I would have called you,” the warden continued, “but your brother stipulated that he wouldn’t accept calls or visits from you, and that if anything happened to him, that you were not to be notified.”
Bradford’s gut twisted with mixed emotions. Johnny had finally been a victim of his own wrong-doings. It served him right, although pained Bradford to know that he was suffering.
And he knew his brother didn’t want to see him. “Was Johnny trying to escape?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible, but Doc says it might have been a suicide attempt. We have him heavily guarded, and he’s on medication, too.”
Bradford contemplated a visit, but why bother? Johnny had made it clear that he didn’t want to see him, that he hated him. “Does my mother know?”
“Yes, she visited him the day after it happened.”
And she hadn’t bothered to call and tell him. “Keep me posted on his condition.” He thanked the warden, then hung up and rapped his knuckles on the scarred wooden desk in frustration.
It did no good to stew over his family, though, so he ran another search, this time narrowing the scope by specifying arson cases in which no accelerant had been discovered. Maybe their UNSUB had discovered something that was untraceable.
It took several minutes for the program to process his request, and he grabbed a cup of bad coffee while he waited, slugging it down. Finally he had a hit.
A case in Salem, Massachusetts, four years ago where an arsonist named Manny Blunt targeted modern-day women practicing witchcraft. He had trapped the women, tied them to a stake and burned them to death, claiming that he was following the footsteps of his long-dead ancestors who’d participated in the original Salem witch trials.
Blunt’s first kill had been his mother. According to him, she was a witch who’d cursed his father and made his dick shrivel up and fall off.
Bradford chuckled. Psycho.
Still, the man’s motive made him think of Rosanna and her bizarre theory about paranormal activities. Her grandmother had practiced as a witch doctor.
Did Rosanna practice witchcraft? Had her friend Natalie?
He crushed the foam cup in his hand and tossed it into the trash. He didn’t honestly think this arsonist was targeting women practicing witchcraft, did he?
Unless Blunt had developed a fan club while in prison. It wouldn’t be the first time a serial killer had earned a groupie.
He studied the pictures of the burned women from Blunt’s file and compared them to the bar scene.
Blunt’s victims had been tied to a stake and set ablaze for personal reasons whereas the bar fire appeared to be impersonal, a thrill kill. This arsonist could have killed hundreds, not just Natalie and the waiter.
Still, he’d look further into Blunt. He called and requested that records of the man’s visitors and cell mates be faxed over, then ran a background check on him but discovered he had no family. He put in a call to the warden to get one of their officers to question him.
But as he hung up, he felt it was a dead lead. Maybe this latest killer wanted to cover his tracks and throw off the police by making it seem like he’d set the fire for excitement, not targeting a specific individual.
He leaned back in the chair, contemplating all the what-ifs. Rosanna and Natalie were the only common denominators between the fires at Cozy’s and the Pink Martini. Rosanna had also known Terrance Shaver.
More and more he was beginning to believe that Rosanna might be a victim, and that she needed protecting.
DISTURBED by the candles suddenly erupting into flames, Rosanna blew them out, then examined the wicks and packaging to see if there was anything unusual about the candles. But she found nothing.
Worried they might be defective, she carried them to the kitchen in the back of her store, placed them inside the sink and wet the wicks. After being lit, she couldn’t sell them anyway.
On second thought, she packed them in a bag and took them home with her. Then she could watch them and see if the oddity occurred again.
Exhausted from the trying day, she forced herself to eat a salad, then showered and slipped on a cool cotton gown. She had just poured herself a small glass of Riesling when the doorbell rang. Startled at having company, especially so late, she checked the peephole and was shocked to see Bradford Walsh standing on her stoop.
Maybe he’d solved the case and had come to tell her they had the arsonist behind bars. Then she would never have to see him again.
Or maybe he was sending the men in the little white suits to get her.
Barely controlling a shiver of fear, she opened the door. His dark eyes skated over her, from her damp curly hair to her breasts, making her nipples tighten beneath the paper-thin gown. Even her bare toes, which she’d painted a kiss-me red tingled when his gaze found them. Suddenly realizing she wasn’t wearing a robe, she folded her arms across her breasts. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said in a gruff voice. “I should have called first.”
Her cat loped from the sofa to rub against her feet.
“I should have figured you’d have a black cat,” he said with an edge to his voice.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, her defenses rising.
He hesitated, then gave a quick shake of his head. “Nothing, I’m more of a dog person myself.”
Her heart spasmed. “I had a dog once, a long time ago.” In fact, she’d saved Doodlebug after her father died, but had lost the animal to old age when she was a teenager. She hadn’t had the heart to replace him with another puppy. Instead her grandmother’s cat had filled the void in her lonely life.
Not willing to elaborate, though, she asked, “Did you need
something?”
The look he gave her sent a frisson of hunger through her. “Can I come in?”
She bit down on her lower lip, then nodded. “I suppose so. Let me grab a robe.”
“Good idea,” he muttered as he jammed his hands inside the pockets of his slacks. He was still wearing the dress shirt and khakis he’d worn to Natalie’s funeral.
That thought sobered her as she dragged on a short robe and poked her feet into bedroom shoes.
When she returned to the den, he was studying the array of books on her shelf.
She cleared her throat, anxious to get this meeting over with. Her skin was tingling, her heart pounding. Remembering the earlier incident with the candles, she should be grateful for company. But Detective Walsh made her want something she couldn’t have.
An honest, open relationship. One free of worries about some paranormal power that could be dangerous.
Judging from the scowl on his face, he didn’t approve of her selection of reading material. “You have a lot of books on witchcraft,” he said in a quiet voice.
She nodded. “As you know, my grandmother believed in the magic of healing with herbs and homemade remedies.”
“And spells?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes. The strength in believing can be powerful.”
“What about you?” he asked, his expression hard. “Do you practice witchcraft?”
“No.” She bit back further revelations. “Is that why you stopped by? To ask me if I practice witchcraft?”
“Yes.”
His answer shocked her. “Why?”
His eyebrows slid upward. “How about your friend Natalie? Was she into witchcraft?”
“As a matter of fact, she dabbled in it, but she wasn’t very experienced.” She moved closer to him, wondering where he was heading with his questioning. “Now, tell me the reason for this inquisition.”
His mouth twisted sideways. “I was researching arsonist cases across the States, and found one in Massachusetts where the perp targeted women practicing witchcraft.”
His words sent a shiver of alarm through her, resurrecting painful childhood memories. Her grandmother had helped many people, but she’d been despised and feared by others. Some had vandalized her house, attacked her verbally and made physical threats. Rosanna had found dead animals in the yard, voodoo charms meant to turn the evil back on her grandmother.
“So you think this guy is here now, and that he targeted Natalie because she dabbled in spell-casting?”
He gave a clipped nod, looking wary. “No. He’s still in the pen. But he might have a copycat, a follower imitating his crimes.”
She had no idea what to say. The possibility was mind-boggling. But the censure in his eyes indicated that he thought her friend had brought trouble on herself by studying witchcraft. Maybe he thought she had, too.
“People have no right to judge,” she said quickly, vehemently. “But even if you’re right, how would someone know about my grandmother’s practices, or that Natalie dabbled in witchcraft?”
“With the Internet these days, a smart criminal can find out personal information on anyone. Places you shop, your favorite dining spots and foods, items you purchase, vacation spots you prefer, movies you’ve rented.” He angled his head toward the gris-gris in the shadowbox on her wall. “Did Natalie purchase items in your store?”
She nodded, sucking in a labored breath.
“Maybe he’s been in your store, saw you and Natalie talking. Hell, he might have tapped into your files somehow, found names and addresses of buyers. Do you have a mailing list?”
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, chilled at the thought of someone invading her privacy. “Yes.”
“Credit card receipts can also offer personal information. So can Web searches, chat rooms you frequent…”
She waved a hand to stop him. “Okay, I get the picture.” Stunned and trembling now, she sagged against the fireplace hearth. Shadow curled up by her feet as if to offer comfort, and she leaned over and rubbed his head, grateful for his unconditional love.
“I know it’s a long shot, Rosanna,” Detective Walsh said, “but right now I’m looking for any connections I can find. I reviewed the list of people at the café and bar, and you and Natalie were the only common denominator.”
Disbelief mingled with fear in her chest. “So you think someone may have set the fire to kill us?”
“Like I said, it’s a long shot, but I have to look into every angle.”
His logic made the incident at her store stand out in her mind. “Someone was outside my store earlier, watching me,” Rosanna whispered hoarsely.
“What? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
She shrugged, fatigue clawing at her. “I don’t know, I thought I was being paranoid. But after what you just said…it makes me wonder.”
He gently gripped her arms then forced her to look at him. “Did you see his face, or recognize him?”
“No…” In her mind, she saw the candles lighting up one by one, flickering eerily against the night. The stranger’s face watching her with that odd detached look, his eyes staring into the flames so intensely that he seemed enthralled by them.
A deep trembling started inside her and refused to release her from its hold. The past twenty-four hours had been too much. The fire at the café, then the bar. The trip to the hospital. Natalie’s funeral. Terrance Shaver’s death. The detective’s accusations. His theory about the arsonist targeting witches.
The realization that she might have a stalker.
And her own theory—a man who could set fire with his hands, or maybe just his mind.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Detective Walsh’s deep voice rumbled out soothingly.
Tears pooled in her eyes again, but she blinked them back furiously. She didn’t know what to think, who to turn to, what to say. She was scared that he might be right, that this killer was after her.
But opening up to him terrified her more. Besides, he wouldn’t believe her if she admitted the truth about her childhood.
What if this person knew about her gift? Knew about her past? Thought she was evil, a witch, like her father had.
Suddenly his eyes flickered with emotions that she couldn’t read. She froze, the pain and panic in her chest squeezing her lungs so tightly she couldn’t breathe. She’d never felt so alone in her life.
“I’m sorry, Rosanna, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said quietly. “But I wanted you to be aware that you might be in danger, to be careful.”
She shivered again, too stunned and confused to speak.
Then he stroked the hair away from her face, muttered a curse as if he was relenting to some temptation that he shouldn’t. She felt the pull of his sexuality, the indescribable electricity between them.
His eyes darkened, then he shocked her by lowering his head toward her. Drawn to him, aching for comfort, she leaned forward.
A hiss left his mouth then he pressed his lips over hers and kissed her.
Chapter Ten
Bradford had no idea what possessed him to kiss Rosanna, but he couldn’t stop. She was trembling, visibly afraid and shaken by his speculations, and she was grieving for her friend. She’d also suffered herself in the fire the night before. The close call with death must still be on her mind.
He shut out the voices in his head warning him that this was a mistake, that she might be unbalanced and manipulating him. But once he fused his hard, unforgiving mouth to her soft, supple, sweet lips, she tasted so enticing he couldn’t release her. Her body felt oddly fragile while voluptuous at the same time, and it fit against his as if she was made to lie in his arms. Through the thin gown and robe, her nipples beaded to hard buds against his chest, fueling his desire, and he deepened the kiss, tasting and exploring her as his hands dug through that wild red hair.
A man could lose himself inside that riot of flaming curls.
A man could lose himself inside her.
She
moaned softly, and raised one delicate hand and pressed it against his jaw. The yearning in that gesture, the subtle invitation for more, made his sex harden, and intensified his hunger to a burning need that threatened to consume him. He wanted to strip her gown, run his hands and tongue all over her tempting body and make love to her on the floor.
Hell, what was he doing? He hadn’t felt this way about a woman in ages. Maybe ever. He’d always been in control.
The potency of his desire scared the crap out of him and jarred him back to reality. He broke the kiss, then stumbled backward and scrubbed his hand over his face. His breath whooshed out, harsh and labored in the deafening silence roaring through the room, while hers whispered toward him, enticing and soft, echoing with desire, tempting him to pull her back in his arms and feel it fan across his face.
He expected to see shock or anger, but her eyes looked dazed and cloudy with heat, and she clutched her arms over her breasts as if her body needed his touch just as his needed hers.
Dammit. He could not go there. Not with this woman. Not when she was involved in this case. Not when she might need saving, either from a killer or from herself.
He’d proven with his family that he was nobody’s savior. Just a cop trying to do a job.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a voice sharper than he intended. “I…don’t know what got into me, but I promise it won’t happen again.”
She didn’t say anything, just stared at him with those damned mesmerizing eyes, then licked those luscious lips. He swore he saw a smile fighting to surface on her mouth.
His own begged to taste her again.
Afraid he might give in to temptation again and lose all rational thought, he stormed out the door with a muttered goodbye.
ROSANNA LIFTED her fingers to her lips where they still tingled with pleasure from the detective’s hot mouth on hers. She locked the door, then grabbed the glass of wine she’d poured earlier with shaking fingers, and sipped it, contemplating what had just transpired between them as she crawled beneath the covers. Shadow curled up on the foot of her bed, contented and sleepy, but in spite of the exhausting day, she couldn’t relax.