by Rita Herron
He squatted down beside her, slid a thumb beneath her chin and tilted her face up to him. “I need to go to the precinct, then out to the research park. Will you be all right?”
“Sure. I’m used to being alone.”
“Where are you going from here?” he asked.
She sighed. “To talk to my landlord. Then shopping. I called Honey last night and asked her to open up Mystique today.”
“You can reach me on my cell if you need me.” He handed her a card with the police department’s number and his personal cell phone listed.
“Don’t worry about a place to sleep tonight,” he said. “You’re staying with me until this arsonist is caught.”
Her eyes widened in shock, but he stood and left before she could ask why he wasn’t doing the smart, logical, professional thing and taking her to a hotel.
He should do that.
But for more reasons than one, reasons he didn’t want to pursue too deeply, he couldn’t leave her alone tonight.
And he didn’t trust anyone to keep her safe but him.
ROSANNA MANAGED to channel her emotions into energy as she sorted through the remains of her clothing and personal belongings. She had been honest when she said her clothes could be replaced. So could her jewelry, which was more trendy than expensive.
But the precious photographs of her and her grandmother were all she had left of their life together. That and her memories.
No one could steal those from her.
She had been the only person in Rosanna’s life who’d truly loved her. An unconditional love.
And she had been a strange little child. Homely. Prone to telling stories about her grandmother’s healing and incantations, which had frightened the other children.
Afraid to show emotions for fear of unleashing some power that might hurt others.
By noon, she’d salvaged what she could and boxed it up, then met with the landlord who looked distraught over the damage. He’d placed a call into his insurance company, and assured her they would get the repairs done as quickly as possible.
She grabbed some toiletries and left, then stopped by her favorite vintage shop and bought some new outfits.
After a light lunch at a nearby café, she checked in at the store, then headed to CIRP for her afternoon session, wondering what she would find. Had Bradford already gone to the center? Had he obtained the information he’d wanted?
Her nerves strung tight, she decided to snoop around on her own and see what she could learn. But if the arsonist belonged to the experimental group, she had to be careful.
Her stomach fluttered with anxiety when she passed the lab assistant in the hallway. He shot her an angry look, then she slipped into the room with the other telekinetic participants.
Dr. Salvadore addressed the group, “Today we’re going to focus on relaxation techniques, tapping into our deep reservoir of power, and honing our individual skills.” He gestured with his hands. “Remember we’re working with energy we all possess, energy that gives us the ability to control mind over matter.
“Most people dwell on the negative things that happen in their life. Then those negative things actually happen, because you are actually drawing that negative energy toward you.” The doctor paused, voice soothing. “Today rid yourself of those self-defeating thoughts and concentrate on positive energy. Choose something you want, whether it’s money, fame, a lover. Visualize good things happening. Instead of moving the thing you want away from you, visualize moving it toward you. You see it within reach. Then see yourself holding it in your hands.”
She proceeded to walk them through various exercises in positive thinking and visualizing success. Triggered by those suggestions, glimpses of images traipsed through Rosanna’s mind—images of her and Bradford as a couple, of them solving the murder, making love, even ending up together forever.
She removed the button from her pocket, the one that had slipped off Bradford’s shirt this morning. She planned to sew it back on, but now she used it for the experiment. She focused on the small object, on the energy in her body, on the attraction between her and Bradford. If she could move the button toward her, maybe she could somehow bridge the gap between them.
But her first attempts failed, and frustration knotted her shoulders. Still, she felt compelled to maintain a bottleneck on her emotions for fear of unleashing the evil within her that had erupted when her father had attacked her. And while she struggled to focus, she kept one eye on the others in the room, searching for someone who might be suspicious.
Someone who might have tried to kill her the night before.
Her lack of focus kept her from success again. Or maybe she didn’t possess a telekinetic power after all.
Relief tugged at her. If she didn’t have an ability, she wouldn’t have to worry about hurting anyone or lying to Bradford.
As a wind-down to the session, the doctor walked them through several relaxation and deep breathing exercises. When she left the room, Rosanna scanned the labels on the doors as she walked down the corridor. Several doctors’ offices flanked the hall, along with labs and administrative services. The man who’d claimed to freeze things stood staring at her from the lobby.
She darted into the rest room to calm herself, hoping he’d leave. Several minutes later, she held her breath as she ducked out the door. Thankfully he was gone.
Then she spied the door to the lab across the hall and poked her head inside. A nurse hovered at the desk, lost in conversation on the phone. She waited until the nurse turned toward the window, then hurried past and slipped back to the lab area.
Seconds later, she scrambled up to the computer, hoping to locate information on the study and the people involved.
She had just tapped into the file when a voice behind her broke the silence.
“What the hell are you doing?”
A guard appeared beside her, hand to his gun, shattering any hope she had of escaping.
Chapter Fourteen
Bradford hated to leave Rosanna alone to deal with the damage to her house, but he felt as if he was invading her privacy by watching her sift through her personal belongings. Besides, he had work to do.
He stopped by the precinct and met with the captain and other officers to discuss the case. He hoped that CSI had discovered some concrete evidence, but as in the other fires, they hadn’t found traces of an accelerant. There had to be something they were missing, some new chemical that was undetectable through normal tests.
And the fax about Blunt and the interrogation notes from the warden at the prison didn’t point to any groupie or copycat, at least none they’d discovered.
“We’re still checking prints,” the lead CSI investigator said, “but we haven’t found any except for the woman’s and yours, Detective Walsh.”
Dammit. “How about those candles?”
“They were melted, but preliminary tests on the wax and wicks indicate that they’re normal candles that you could buy in any store in town.”
Bradford relayed the nature of the research experiment at CIRP and received rolled eyes and grunts of skepticism.
“I don’t think that chick’s elevator stops on every floor,” one officer muttered.
“You don’t believe in that supernatural crap, do you?” another asked.
Captain Black gave him an odd look, and Bradford knew he was thinking about Bradford’s past. That psychic and the botched assignment. And his brother…
“No, of course not,” Bradford said vehemently.
“I still want you to investigate the project,” Captain Black said. “It might be questionable. We know the doctors have utilized drugs in the experiment. Perhaps they’ve also used bionic parts or a computer chip that make it appear as if people have paranormal or superhuman abilities.”
Good point, Bradford conceded. “Rosanna admitted that she knew Terrance Shaver, our last victim. And he’s also part of the research project as was Natalie Gorman.”
“Two dead and
one attempted murder, all connected to CIRP,” Black said. “It’s definitely our best lead so far.”
Bradford stood. “I’m going to pick up that warrant and talk to the staff now.”
“Call if you need backup,” Black said.
Bradford agreed, snagged the warrant, then drove to the research park on Skidaway Island. He first met with the director of CIRP, Dr. Ian Hall, and explained the reason for his visit.
The statuesque man leaned back in his leather chair with a worried look on his face. “I was sorry to hear about the deaths of those individuals, but I don’t see how it relates to our work here. Since I’ve assumed leadership, I’ve worked hard to maintain the integrity of the scientists, staff members and the projects we undertake.”
“I appreciate your position,” Bradford said, striving for diplomacy. “But two of the people involved in the same project have died as a result of arson, and another participant was almost killed in her home last night.”
Dr. Hall chewed the inside of his cheek as if trying to decide his degree of cooperation. “We’ll release the list if you give me your word that you’ll keep our association out of the papers.”
“Worried about bad publicity?”
“We’ve had our fair share of good and bad publicity, but my goal is to protect the privacy of our employees and patients.”
“All right, for now. But if we discover that the arsonist is one of your staff members or that these crimes are directly related to a specific research experiment, that may not be the case.”
Dr. Hall gave him a long assessing look, then finally nodded. “The experiment you’re speaking of involves paranormal abilities.”
Bradford handed Dr. Hall the warrant.
“The warrant is specific to the research study I mentioned,” Bradford said, “so we won’t be invading the privacy of participants in other projects.”
The doctor examined it, then thanked him for keeping the warrant specific. Then he led him through the building to an office belonging to Dr. Klondike.
The sandy-haired physician narrowed her eyes at Bradford, her mouth flattening into a frown. “Our participants’ privacy is at issue here,” she argued. “We specifically had each person sign confidentiality agreements to protect them.”
“We don’t intend to advertise the details of the investigation,” Bradford said, “but while you may be trying to protect the individuals’ identities, I’m trying to save their lives.” He produced files showing photos of the crime scenes, of Natalie Gorman lying on a slab in the morgue, of Terrance Shaver’s burned corpse and the woman shuddered.
“Last night a third woman almost died. Actually she was also in the fire with Miss Gorman at the bar, but escaped.” He paused. “I believe someone in the experiment may have set the fires and is afraid Miss Redhill might recognize him, so she’s still in danger.” He continued by explaining the profile of an arsonist who set fires for excitement, then ended by reminding her of the brutality of the deaths and the fact that the man wouldn’t stop until he was apprehended.
“I just don’t want us to lose credibility with our participants,” the doctor said. “If people find out that we release names and personal information, they’ll stop volunteering for our projects.”
Bradford’s patience snapped. “Maybe they should if it means they’ll be murdered. And maybe you know the participant that fits this profile and are covering for him.”
Dr. Klondike blanched. “I resent that suggestion.”
“How long have you worked on this project?” Bradford asked. “Months? Years? I’m sure you don’t want your experiment ruined, exposed.”
The truth of his statement registered in the way the doctor averted her gaze.
“Do you know who’s setting these fires?”
She shot an angry gaze his way. “No.”
“If you do, you’re covering for a murderer, and can be tried as an accessory.”
Dr. Hall cleared his throat. “We have nothing to hide. Turn over the information, Dr. Klondike.” Dr. Hall turned to Bradford. “Just remember our agreement, Detective. You won’t mention our research experiment to the press.”
Bradford gave a clipped nod.
Dr. Hall excused himself, while Dr. Klondike reluctantly printed the information. Bradford’s cell phone rang.
“Detective Walsh.”
“It’s Fox. We found that Georgia parolee, Coker, and are bringing him in for questioning. Thought you might want to be here for the interrogation.”
“I do. See you shortly.” He accepted the printout from the doctor, then headed to his car. Maybe they had their killer in custody already, and they’d get a confession.
Then Rosanna would be safe from the killer.
And he would be safe from her.
ROSANNA’S MIND whirred as she struggled to think of a plausible reason she might try to hack into the research park’s computer.
“What is your name, ma’am?” the security guard asked.
“Rosanna Redhill,” she said, then hesitated, realizing she should have made up a fake name.
“What are you doing here?”
“I belong to one of the research projects,” she said, suddenly nauseous from the scent of antiseptic and blood in the room. Or maybe her nerves were causing the reaction. “I wanted to talk to one of the lab techs about my bloodwork from my last visit.”
“There’s obviously no one in here now. They’ve stepped out.” He made a point of glancing around with a scowl. “Why were you touching the computer?”
She gathered her purse. “I was just fiddling while I waited…Thought I might check my e-mail.”
“Our patient files and their labwork are strictly confidential. No one is allowed to use the computers without authorization,” the security officer said. “You have no business being in here by yourself.” He reached for his radio and she realized he was going to turn her in.
She backed toward the door. “I’m sorry. Actually I really thought Louis might be here. He and I are friends and…well, I just wanted to pop in and say hey to him.” She shrugged, letting her smile suggest that she was involved with the lab guy who’d asked her out.
He relaxed his stance, then flipped a button on his radio and reported how he’d found her. She twisted her hands together while she waited to see what he intended to do with her. Arrest her?
He spoke quietly into the radio for several seconds, then must have connected to Dr. Klondike. Finally he angled his head toward her. “Dr. Klondike vouched for you. She wants to see you.”
Dread mounted in her stomach as he latched a beefy hand around her arm and hauled her through the door.
But as she stepped into the hallway, she saw Louis duck into another doorway.
He’d been watching, had overheard her conversation with the guard. And the sharp anger that flared in his eyes indicated he knew she’d been lying. That anger made her rethink her initial impression of him. She’d first thought him gangly and odd, but shy and harmless.
Now the ominous look in his eyes suggested he could be violent.
Bradford had asked her if she had an old boyfriend who might be mad and want to hurt her. Louis had been at Natalie’s funeral. She tried to remember if she’d seen him at the café or the bar. It had been so dark and crowded he could have been inside without being noticed.
No. Surely Louis wouldn’t try to kill her just because she’d blown him off.
Would he?
BRADFORD MET Detective Fox at the station and joined him to question Coker in the interrogation room while their captain watched through the two-way mirror.
“We hear you’re on parole,” Fox began.
Coker, a ruddy-faced, big-bellied man with tobacco-stained teeth folded his tree-trunk arms across his chest. “Yep. Paid my debt to society. I’m free and clear. So why are you hassling me?”
Bradford cut to the chase. One by one, he listed the dates of the fires—first the cottage, the coffee shop, the bar, the car and then Rosanna’s hous
e, each time asking Coker to explain his whereabouts.
“Listen,” Coker barked, “you got no right to try to pin those on me.”
Bradford slapped a picture of Natalie Gorman’s corpse, along with the waiter who’d died in the bar fire, onto the wooden table. “These people died because of someone’s sick game of arson. You like arson.”
Coker’s eyes widened. “But I never killed no one.”
Bradford made a clicking sound with his teeth. “There’s always a first. You’ve been sitting in that cell a long time. Bored. Looking for some excitement.”
“Only excitement I wanted when I was paroled was between a woman’s legs.”
Bradford shoved his face into the man’s. “Your kind doesn’t suddenly stop getting a thrill from setting fires. Trust me, I know.”
Fox dropped another photo into the mix, this one of Terrance Shaver. “He was fried to a crisp,” Fox stated bluntly. “Now, tell us where you were or we’ll slap your ass in a cell.”
Coker’s eyes bulged with panic. “No, no cell. Not again.”
“Then you’d better start talking,” Bradford muttered.
Coker stood and yanked at the belt loops of his jeans. “I think I need a lawyer.”
Bradford crossed his arms. “Lawyer makes you look guilty.”
“Hell, we all know that’s not true,” Coker sputtered. “You want to pin this on me, you’ll invent some evidence and frame me.”
Bradford grabbed the man by the neck of his shirt. “Listen to me, I want the truth. Locking up the wrong guy is not going to help me. The real killer would still be out there. And this guy will kill again if I don’t stop him.”
Fox shoved a legal pad in front of Coker. “Write down where you were and who you were with for each of the dates listed.”
Coker flattened a hand over his ruddy face, then cursed. But a second later, he began to write.
He didn’t have an alibi for the first two fires, but he swore he was in Vidalia with a woman he’d hooked up with the night of the bar fire. And the night before when Rosanna’s apartment was set ablaze, he claimed he’d been at a club in South Georgia.