Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2)

by Lisa Brunette

  My grandmother. Jacob knew that Cat shared the studio with Granny Grace.

  It’s okay. We’ll be sleeping. That’s how you’ll know it’s just that. Let me hold you tonight. OK?

  OK.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  For the first time in his life, Mick wished he owned a gun.

  Maybe he’d use it on himself.

  If not that, then he’d have it in hand for the moment when he could look his arsonist/killer/child porn sicko/frame artist in the face and pull the trigger.

  Because that’s what he would most definitely do. The bastard who’d torched his life and hurt the redheaded girl like that deserved to die. But a gun wouldn’t do it justice. No, the creep needed to die in a slow, torturous manner.

  Mick sat down on the couch in his studio. He couldn’t look up his public stoning on the Internet because his equipment was still at the Miami PD, not that he needed to see it anyway. He didn’t have much for them to search through in the first place, and Alvarez wanted her people to comb through everything a second time to make sure they didn’t miss anything.

  To make sure they didn’t miss anything.

  He couldn’t believe this was happening, that it wasn’t some surreal painting he’d stepped into and was living. But it was real. He pinched himself to make sure. He was sitting there, in his studio, with the world out there now thinking he was a repugnant waste of human flesh.

  He’d never live it down. His career might be over. What now?

  And Sergeant Alvarez, of all people. For her to think that he was that kind of sicko… He remembered her smirk as she said that all they found was what “the average citizen” would have bookmarked on their computer browser. She and her cop buddies must have kidded around good at his bookmarks for Chicks with Nightsticks and Broads with Badges.

  He knew she was too young for him, but hey, it wasn’t a crime to let out a little steam that way. Then again, maybe it had reassured them he wasn’t the pedophile sicko type. If there was one thing made clear by his taste in porn, it was that Mick Travers favored strong women of clearly and firmly adult age.

  But still.

  Mick pushed himself to his feet, went into the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey that hadn’t even been opened yet. He broke the paper seal and unscrewed the cap. Took a sip, right out of the bottle.

  And began to cry. Heaving dry sobs while he stood there staring into the white porcelain sink he couldn’t even fix himself.

  When he was done, he went into the living room and plotted how he could get that sick bastard Pennington. Mick knew now it was his dream he’d walked in that night.

  He’d had to describe the dream twice, once to his own lawyer, and then again to Alvarez. And the second time, with Alvarez grilling him, a specific detail had floated up from his subconscious.

  A watch, an antique gold watch with a brown snakeskin band. He remembered the watch in the dream, on the wrist of whoever’s dream he’d slipped into. It took him a minute or two while Alvarez told him why his story sucked and she knew he was lying before he realized where else he’d seen that watch. Pennington James, a middling artist who painted pictures of animals dressed as superheroes, never left home without it.

  “This here’s my grand-pappy’s watch,” Pennington always said, affecting a Southern drawl. Mick knew in fact the man had grown up in Pittsburgh.

  Mick hadn’t said anything to anybody else about the watch. He didn’t know why, exactly. It wasn’t that he thought he should protect Pennington. Mick knew him from a group of artists who liked to get together and drink, spending much of their time one-upping each other with insults, when they weren’t comparing the relative dick sizes of their respective art careers. He’d never liked Pennington’s art, truth be told. But they were friends. Not to the level that he and Donnie had been, but they were friends. How had Mick not seen it? Not once did he ever get a bad vibe about him. In a million years, Mick never would have thought Pennington to be the pedophile type. The man was a pretentious snob whose work wasn’t as good as his opinion of himself made it out to be. But a creep who bought pictures of naked kids? And who might have even killed Donnie?

  He never would have thought Pennington capable of either crime. But now that it was clear he’d been the one to dream about the girl, Mick no longer considered the man a friend. Far from it.

  No, he didn’t want to protect Pennington.

  He wanted to kill the bastard.

  Himself.

  Maybe even with his bare hands.

  >>>

  Fortunately—or unfortunately—for Mick, the group of artists was meeting soon in honor of a holiday they unanimously liked to disparage: Christmas. So he went.

  Mick braced himself for the evening with several shots of whiskey out of a new bottle to replace the one he’d downed the night of his questioning. He knew the evening was bound to be a roast with himself as the designated suckling pig, since a man questioned for possessing child porn made such a glee-inducing target. And that wouldn’t even be the hardest part of the evening.

  The Orinda Lounge was a slice of ol’ cracker Miami, with its grimy red carpet, pizzeria lamps, and jukebox playing nothing but classic rock. “Hotel California” was blasting when he walked in the door, and the cadre of artists who’d already assembled at their usual back table bristled when he entered and sat down, clearly surprised to see him.

  Barney Dent, a troglodyte of a sculptor whose pieces graced the lobbies of many a South Beach hotel, sounded the first note. “Mick, what gives? You more of a perv than any of us gave you credit for, or what?”

  Mick was conscious of Pennington James, drinking a beer, his demeanor nonchalant. Mick wanted to lunge across the table, grab him, beat him senseless, announce, “There’s your perv,” and stalk out. But he knew better.

  “Aw, it was a stupid misunderstanding,” Mick answered. He knew the police hadn’t released the details of his questioning, so he didn’t have to explain the painting of the girl or any of that. Besides, it was better if his responses were vaguely suspicious. “They, ah, had me confused with some other guy. We got it cleared up yesterday. That’s why I’m out.”

  “Well, that’s rather boring,” Dent replied. “But I guess I’m relieved to hear you’re not any screwier in the head than I thought.”

  At that, the group pounced on Mick with the subtlety of kids going after candy thrown from a parade float.

  “Say, Mick, if you’re looking for the Toys ‘R’ Us, it’s down the road. I think the chicks in there are more your type.”

  “Aw, Mick. It’s so nice to see you. We weren’t sure you’d make it since we hear there’s big doings tonight down at the elementary school.”

  “If your art career doesn’t recover from this, I hear they’re looking for new recruits for the priesthood.”

  And so it went. He took it in with his face set to a mask of good-naturedness. They advised him to steer clear of nudes and to paint using models whose hair had gone gray. “I guess you ought never to apply for the Artists in the Schools program!” That one got a huge laugh.

  Mick stuck around far longer than he could stomach, betting that Pennington would, too. And he did.

  Soon it was only the two of them, and Mick acted drunker than he really was. He’d been alternating every gin and tonic with plain tonic water.

  They laughed and kidded and told stories, getting back into each other’s confidence. Mick waited for the right moment. There was no one else in the back room now, and the jukebox was loud in the front of the lounge.

  “Boy, what a rap,” Mick said. “Child porn. What’s the big deal with that, anyway?”

  “You’re all right, Mick,” Pennington said, moving in closer to Mick and lowering his voice. “Man, even if you did have a few, you know, pictures or whatnot, say they’re a bit young-looking, what of it? It’s just a picture.”

  Mick squelched the urge to grab Pennington by the neck and choke the hell out of him.

  “Yeah, yo
u sure? You okay with that kind of thing?”

  “Oh, in the right context. Society’s far too overprotective.”

  “Damn straight,” said Mick. He took a fortifying sip of his drink, which he was glad was a real gin and tonic this time. “Say, you got anything I can borrow? I’m pretty cleaned out, you know, with what happened yesterday.”

  Pennington stood up, took out his wallet, and settled the bill. Mick reached for his own wallet, but Pennington waved his hand, said, “It’s on me.”

  They walked outside, and Pennington turned to Mick. “You want to follow me? My Mazda’s up there. You remember it.”

  Mick nodded, thinking back to a night when Pennington gave him a ride. His car had been in the shop, and Donnie had gone to Ohio.

  Pennington lived in a newly constructed home, peach-colored stucco with tall square columns flanking the front door. Mick had never been there before. Pennington pressed a code into the security system to gain entrance. “Disarmed,” came the voice.

  Mick followed Pennington upstairs. Lining the stairwell were the artist’s own paintings: a zebra in a Green Lantern outfit. A giraffe dressed like Superman. It struck Mick suddenly that he’d never liked Pennington’s art because it looked like it could grace the cover of a children’s book. Thinking about that in the present context nauseated him.

  “Wait here a minute,” instructed Pennington, pausing outside what looked to be the door to his art studio. Then he went in, and Mick stood outside.

  There were sounds on the other side of the door. Pennington getting into his secret stash, Mick figured. Then he popped the door open.

  “Entrez,” he said with a flourish, gesturing with his hand as if whipping off his hat and bowing to Mick as he stepped inside.

  It was a sizable atrium studio, which must have been custom-built with the house. Four skylights showed a fuzzy moon and city stars. On a low table in the corner, Pennington had placed a stack of color images, letter-sized, as if they’d been printed off from a computer.

  “You can take them if you want,” said Pennington. “I have the digitals.”

  Bracing himself, Mick rifled through the images, looking for the redheaded girl. He had to control his reaction to them. He felt his stomach churning and was afraid the few gin and tonics in his belly wouldn’t stay there.

  The worst part was, he had to look as if he liked seeing them.

  “I prefer gingers,” Mick said. “Got any of those?”

  “Of course,” Pennington said, his voice sounding delighted, as if he’d met a fellow connoisseur. “But if you wouldn’t mind stepping outside? Just a precaution.”

  “Sure,” Mick said. Again the sounds behind the door. A sound like metal sliding over metal. The click of a lock. A shuffling noise.

  Then footsteps. Pennington opened the door, and Mick walked back over to the table.

  Three photos down, there she was. But it wasn’t like his painting. This was his girl, but the image was one of terrible violation, something he would now never be able to forget, and the girl was even younger than he’d realized. Something snapped within Mick, and he turned around and lunged at Pennington.

  The man was a wimp, smaller than Mick and not in possession of the kind of build that one associates with physical labor. But he fought back with a wiry spite and was able to knock Mick over.

  Only once, though. Mick hit him across the face, and Pennington fell. Mick dragged him to a chair. There was some duct tape there in the studio, which Mick had seen earlier. He used it to secure him to the chair.

  He should put him out of his misery, Mick thought. Strangle him right here. No one would weep for a sicko like him.

  “You look like you want to kill me,” Pennington said, laughing. “Go ahead, Mick! It’ll do wonders for your career. You’re already a child molester. You can be a murderer, too.”

  “Where’s the girl?” Mick asked.

  “The girl? What girl?”

  Mick grabbed the awful photo and smashed it into Pennington’s face. “Her!”

  Pennington gazed at the image. “Ah, so this is about her. Haunting little minx, isn’t she? I’ve had the most delightful dreams about her.”

  In one smooth maneuver that did not require any thought at all, Mick picked up a nearby paintbrush and shoved the pointed end into Pennington’s ear. The man screamed. Blood dripped.

  “Tell me where she is,” Mick said. His rational mind, working behind the rage he felt, told him the girl was long gone, maybe dead by now, and that Pennington wouldn’t be able to help him save her. But he wanted it to be possible.

  “Where?”

  Pennington cried, tears streaming out of his sockets. Mick kicked him, and he called out again.

  “I-I have no idea! They’re just photographs. That’s it. Innocent photographs.”

  “This sick stuff isn’t innocent, and you know it.”

  “I don’t know anything about any of these kids,” Pennington insisted. “Not even their names. Jesus, don’t you know how this works?”

  Mick tapped the brush sticking out of Pennington’s ear, and the man screamed again.

  “Stop! I can’t help you! I buy this stuff online, and that’s it. It’s a hobby. Nothing to kill over!”

  “Who’d you buy it from?” Mick demanded.

  “It’s just like regular porn, man. So what if they’re a little young. You can tell they liked—”

  Mick went for Pennington’s throat.

  The studio door burst open, and there was Sergeant Alvarez, her gun drawn. “Stand down, Mick,” she said.

  But Mick couldn’t stop. His rage was blind, red.

  “Move away from him,” Alvarez commanded. She moved closer, her gun out in front of her.

  Mick did as he was told. Speck and Santiago appeared behind her, their guns drawn as well.

  “Get this maniac away from me!” Pennington screamed. “He’s a creep. That’s his porn over there. I brought him up here to show him my art, and he took out those awful pictures.”

  Speck held a gun on Mick.

  Santiago went for the stack of photos. “These are children.”

  Alvarez saw the picture of the redheaded girl on the floor near Pennington and stooped down to retrieve it. She looked at Mick, at Pennington tied with tape, and around at the room.

  “You were trying to get him to talk, weren’t you?” she said to Mick.

  “Oh, he doesn’t need any help talking. But I can’t get anything good out of him. Not about that girl or where he got this shit.”

  “Don’t listen to him!” Pennington yelled. “It’s his! He brought it here!”

  Alvarez grabbed the roll of duct tape and stuck a strip across Pennington’s mouth. Mick loved her for it.

  “Where does he keep it?” Alvarez asked, looking around the room.

  “I don’t know. He made me wait outside when he dug it out.”

  “Did you hear anything? Look around the room.”

  Mick looked. Metal sliding over metal, he remembered. There was too much ductwork in the room, he realized, and not all of it led to the heating vents. He walked over to an odd section of metal duct that seemed to have no purpose. He slid the duct aside easily, metal sliding over metal. But there was nothing there.

  Further into the studio, though, there was another batch of ductwork that also didn’t make sense. He slid that over, and there it was, a safe with a metal lock. But it needed a key.

  Alvarez was peering over Mick’s shoulder at this point and saw what was needed.

  “Search his pockets for a key,” she said to Speck. Pennington began a muffled protest behind his tape. Speck produced a ring of keys from Pennington’s trouser pocket.

  The third one they tried was a perfect fit. Inside was Pennington’s personal treasure trove of sickery.

  Alvarez took out her radio and called for a forensics team. “Cuff him,” she told Speck. “We’re taking him in.”

  “Do you want me to remove the tape?”

  “Not the
one on his mouth,” she said.

  “What about this guy?” Santiago gestured at Mick.

  “We let him go,” she said. “He’s clean. We know this didn’t come from him.”

  Mick felt the tension drain out of him. He turned to Alvarez. “How’d you get here, anyway?”

  Speck put handcuffs on Pennington and led him downstairs.

  “Check the other rooms in this house,” Alvarez instructed Santiago. “When the team gets here with the supplies, start bagging and tagging everything you can find.”

  As he left the room, she turned to Mick. “I knew there was something you weren’t telling us, Travers. So I had you followed. When my officer radioed in to update me that you’d entered James’s residence, we heard the first scream. So I came here myself, and by that time it sounded like you were murdering someone.”

  “I might have if you hadn’t shown up.”

  “Better shut up about that,” she said, giving him a sympathetic look. “And I don’t want to see you going rogue like this ever again.”

  She glanced toward the door to make sure no one else was within earshot, smiled, and lowered her voice. “Or else I’ll use my nightstick on you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Grace couldn’t believe her brother Mick had turned into a vigilante. She gave him a good talking-to when his story came out. They couldn’t have Mick going around like that, taking matters into his own hands.

  Then again, she’d never been more proud.

  Grace was looking forward to leaving this case behind soon. It wasn’t that she didn’t have plenty of experience with child victims. Besides Cat’s first big case, with the mother and girl on the run, Grace had seen her fair share of innocence lost. The worst was when she’d gone undercover in a satanic cult in the Eighties. There wasn’t much actually going on in terms of black magic or genuine Satanism, but they’d used the cult as a way to gain control of young people, whom they used to sell drugs and for prostitution, and that was as much evil as Grace could stand.