by Mary Burton
Dated a decade ago, the article’s headline read FIRE DESTROYS SORORITY HOUSE.
Eva’s blood pressure dropped, making her light-headed. She glanced at the envelope and searched for a return address or a postmark. Alexandria postmark with no return address.
She reread the headline. FIRE DESTROYS SORORITY HOUSE. She flipped the article over, and written on the back in red ink was the word Atone.
Atone. Atone for what? She’d spent ten years in jail atoning for sins she wasn’t so sure now that she’d committed. Now she was rebuilding her life. What did she have to atone for? Instead of being scared she grew angry. Someone in town had recognized her, remembered her history and thought it would be a laugh to jerk her chain. Outrage burned inside her.
“Bad news?” King said.
Eva carefully folded the paper. “Just a bill. ”
“How could you have a bill? You never spend money. ”
“Don’t worry about it.” She crammed the article into the back pocket of her jeans.
King grunted. “Something wrong?”
“Nope. All good.”
Someone knew about her past.
Eva coaxed a faltering smile for King and Bobby. “No worries, boys. No worries.”
King arched a bushy brow.
Even Bobby had stopped eating and stared at her as if he were trying to read her mind.
Eva bit into her bagel, doing her best to look casual. “You two look so serious. Really, it’s nothing.” To change the subject she said, “That computer professor at St. Margaret’s said I could come by the lab anytime after I audited his class.”
“You should go,” King said.
Eva shook her head. “I’ll skip today. I can help find Merlin.”
King shook his head. “No, you go. I see the way your eyes light up when you get back from one of those classes. The kid and I will trap Merlin.”
The boy’s brow knotted. “I don’t like school but I like reading.”
She smiled. “What do you like to read about?”
“Cowboys. And boats.”
“I’ll bet you are good,” Eva said.
“I am.” Tension suddenly radiated from his little body like a clenched fist. He’d remembered something from his past.
“It’s okay,” Eva said. She had similar moments. She’d be discussing something that didn’t have to do with anything and then the past would blindside her.
Bobby sighed. “Aren’t you too old for school?”
“You’re never too old.” Eva shrugged. “I didn’t get a chance to go much when I was younger. I’m doing a little catch-up.”
“Why didn’t you go to school?”
“Good question,” King said.
The brains that had earned her a full college admission and scholarship at sixteen hadn’t saved her from a manslaughter conviction. “Lots of reasons.”
“Like what?” Bobby said.
“Like it doesn’t matter now.” She dug her fingers through her long hair and checked her watch. “I better get going or I’ll be late for class.”
“Go,” King said. “The boy and I have a kitten to trap.”
Bobby studied Eva. “You’re coming back?”
“Of course. I’ll be gone just a few hours.” Going to the computer lab would mean on-line time and the chance to check on kids matching Bobby’s description.
The boy picked a fresh bagel from the tray. “Not everyone comes back.”
“Yeah, well, I will.”
He thrust his lip out. “Even if you don’t, I’m not a baby. I can take care of myself.”
Garrison and Malcolm pulled into Fort Ward’s stone entrance exactly an hour later. This time of year, the trees had begun to bud and the land looked a little less barren. Still, the air remained chilly and likely few tourists meandered about. Garrison parked at the main entrance lot, which was empty. He checked his watch.
“So what is Carlson selling?” Malcolm said. “She’s always working an angle.”
“I don’t know. But her guy might have a lead on our Jane Doe’s murder. I’ve got to hear what the two have to say.”
“That woman irritates the shit out of me,” Malcolm grumbled. “I doubt she has a conscience.”
“Who knows? She might.”
“How can you say that? She was a barracuda in the courtroom.”
“Just doing her job. And she won the Dixon case fair and square. I don’t like it but it’s done and over.”
Malcolm shifted in his seat toward his partner. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?” Garrison kept his gaze ahead as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
“You never seem to get pissed.”
Garrison was gratified his smile could mask so much. “My motto is simple. Don’t get mad. Just get even.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I want both.”
Garrison laughed. “Doesn’t always work that way.”
A sleek black BMW pulled up next to the driver’s side of Garrison’s car. Angie Carlson, her eyes shielded with dark glasses, got out of the car. She moved around to the back of her car as Garrison shut off the engine and slid out. Malcolm followed and the two met Carlson.
Carlson’s arms were crossed and she tapped her foot. Garrison noted tension around her mouth and the fact that she’d dropped a little too much weight. She usually never showed emotion but he guessed, like him, she paid a price somewhere along the line for the stoicism.
“Thank you for the meeting, Detectives,” Carlson said.
Garrison nodded. “Where’s your client?”
She checked her watch. “He said he’d be here.”
“Let’s hope he shows and is not wasting my time,” Garrison warned.
A crease furrowed her brow. “I’ve already outlined the consequences. I don’t have time for wild-goose chases either.”
“All right.”
The trio waited several more minutes, an awkward strained silence hovering around them. Finally, Carlson’s phone rang. She glanced at the number, frowned and flipped it open. “Lenny, where are you?” She listened, her scowl deepening. “You said you’d be here!” As she listened she flexed and unflexed her fingers. “Sure, he’s standing right here.” She handed the phone to Garrison.
He accepted it. “Detective Garrison.”
“Is this really Garrison?” The mousy voice on the other end of the line sounded nervous and agitated.
“It is.” He’d met Danvers once when he worked Burglary and could almost picture Danvers dragging his long, bone-thin fingers through his wispy black hair. No doubt he had a lit cigarette in his other hand, the ash dangling and ready to crumble. “What do you have for me, Mr. Danvers?”
“I want a deal.”
The muscle in the side of Garrison’s face tightened. “You said you were going to be here.”
“And have you haul my bony ass to jail? Couldn’t take that chance. Give me a signed deal and then we’ll meet.”
“Tell me what you have first. ”
Danvers chuckled. “I want a deal in writing before I talk.”
Garrison glanced at Carlson, who stared at him stone-faced. He cupped his hand over the receiver. “You said he was going to be here.”
She shook her head. “That’s what he told me.”
Garrison swallowed an oath and then said to Danvers, “Call me when you’re ready to talk. I’m giving you back to your attorney. ”
Malcolm pushed away from the car. “I knew this wasn’t going to pan out.”
Carlson lifted her chin and said loud enough for Danvers to hear, “He’s not my client. He never paid his last bill and I’ve never once said I’d continue to represent him.”
“Looks like you’re screwed. No deal and no attorney. Have a nice life, Danvers.” Garrison hung up.
Malcolm raised a brow but said nothing.
Carlson leaned a little closer in anticipation, but she was too smart an attorney to say what was on her mind.
They waited in silence
just a few more seconds before the phone rang. Garrison handed it to Carlson. “I believe that’s your client.”
She flipped open the phone. “Angie Carlson.” She stared at them stone-faced. “You’re in luck. He was just about to drive away but I think I can flag him down.” She waited a beat and then handed the phone to Garrison.
“Make it fast, Danvers. You’re pissing away my time.”
“Okay. Okay. I was at this house on Saturday night. Nice house. Well-manicured lawn. Looked like the people were on vacation. You know, my kind of place.”
“Keep talking.”
“I get inside and the place is just empty. Nothing. Not a stick of furniture. I was getting ready to leave when I heard a moaning sound coming from the air vents. I thought I’d heard wrong and then I heard it again. It was an awful sound. Like a wounded animal. I moved toward the kitchen to look for basement stairs. And then someone hit me from behind. When I woke up I was tied up like a pig and a woman was screaming. I could smell something burning. Like flesh. I wiggled loose and ran like hell.”
Garrison stared at the barren horizon. “You left this screaming woman?”
“I was scared.”
“You never called the cops to report this?”
“Like I said, I was scared.”
Scared that his bony ass would end up back in jail for ten to fifteen years for breaking and entering. “Did you see who hit you?”
“Just a flash in the corner of my eye.” He sounded breathless.
Garrison had no concern for whatever fear Danvers felt now. He’d left a woman in the hands of a monster. “That doesn’t tell me a whole lot, Mr. Danvers.”
“I want my deal in writing and then I’ll talk more. I can tell you where the house is located—where I’ll bet he killed that woman.”
Garrison smiled. “Mr. Danvers, you are out on bail. If you don’t tell me what you know I’ll have every cop in Northern Virginia looking for you.”
“No one is going to find me. Not you. Not that crazy motherfucker.” He inhaled and exhaled deeply. “I dropped my fucking wallet at the house. He knows where I live.”
“Then you better come in so that I can protect you.”
“I give you an address and then you still put out an APB on my ass and I go back to jail. You’ve got to know this breaking and entering is my third strike. I can’t risk being put away for the next ten years.”
“Just give me the address. ”
“I don’t want to go back to jail again.”
“I can do that. ”
Danvers shoved out a sigh. “I want my guarantee in writing. I’ll call Ms. Carlson at six this evening, and if you’ve got my deal, I’ll text you the address. Once you’ve found the killer, then I’ll reappear.”
Connor Donovan balanced a cup of double espresso and a box crammed full of notepads, scrap pieces of paper and articles on his hip as he shoved the key into his mailbox lock, wiggled it a couple of times, yanked up and then turned the persnickety lock to the right. He’d gone by the medical examiner’s office last night hoping to find someone who might tell him something about the woman’s body found at the shelter. But no one had talked, no matter what he offered. So he’d headed to his storage shed and dug through old file boxes, trying to find his notes on the Sorority Murder story. He’d dug out five boxes from deep in the shed when he’d hit pay dirt and discovered the box of missing notes.
His eyes itched as he pulled the mail—mostly junk and bills—from the full box. He shoved the lot under his arm next to the newspaper, closed the box door and headed up the stairs to his third-floor apartment. He never took the elevator and he always walked when he could. His hours for getting to the gym proved next to impossible but he liked the fact that his waist was as trim as it had been when he’d been doing more fieldwork.
He unlocked his front door, entered and kicked it closed behind him. Polished hardwood floors and white walls were the first thing most visitors commented about. He liked the sleek barren look—fewer distractions when he wrote.
The large living room had a long, low black couch, which sat across from a coffee table and a wide-screen television. The only pictures on his wall were photos he’d snapped during his travels. U.S. soldiers raising an American flag in Baghdad in front of a school-house. Snow falling on a young blond teenage girl with braids in Munich. A girl in Madrid on a scooter, arms wrapped around her boyfriend’s waist as she grins over her shoulder. A Russian soldier crossing the cobblestone street at the Kremlin in Moscow while a handful of schoolchildren watch. Each photo represented a story assignment and each offered a perfect conversation opener.
He set the box and mail on a sleek black slate table that sat under a white dome chandelier, but kept his espresso. The galley-style kitchen glistened with chrome and polished black granite countertops. It looked sleek as hell, but he rarely used it.
Donovan sorted through the mail, tossing the ads and bills in separate piles. The last piece was an oversized manila envelope that was hand addressed.
His sister occasionally sent him articles of interest. But Nadia lived in Europe now and the postmark on the envelope was local. He tore open the envelope, anxious to start digging through his old files. He pulled out a single piece of paper and glanced at the handwritten note. REPENT OR ATONE.
“What the hell?” If the mail hadn’t been delivered to his apartment building he’d have balled it up and tossed it away. He’d had his share of crackpots contacting him over the years. But this one had come to his home. And he’d always been so careful about hiding his identity from everyone.
Donovan stared at the note. He could call the cops but what could they do? “Keep your eyes open,” they’d say.
He didn’t need to waste a half a day at a police station to know he had to be careful. He carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. He’d tuck it in the file with all the other hate mail.
Repent or atone.
If the letter had been a mindless rant like all the others, he’d have shoved it out of his mind. But the simply spoken words rattled through his mind as he opened the box and mined for gold.
Red Horseman had been on-line for just under an hour when Drama-Girl came into the chat room. Drama-Girl and Red Horseman had hooked up a few weeks ago in the chat room for single professionals living in the Washington, D.C., metro area. Immediately, they’d struck up a rapport and Drama-Girl quickly found she anticipated their chats.
Drama-Girl was lonely, bummed that her parents’ thirty-year marriage had ended in divorce and her own affair with a married man had dissolved. Toss in the fact that Drama-Girl also felt the weight of her ad sales job, which had grown more and more competitive in the last year.
The chat rooms helped her unwind. My boss is an ass.
Red Horseman responded, He just doesn’t appreciate the work you do. You’ve told me how hard you work.
Drama-Girl liked the fact that Red Horseman was her age and an ambitious professional. He, too, worked long hours and was feeling the pressures of the economy. I should have his job. He thinks he knows how the work gets done but he has no clue.
You will have his job one day. I have confidence in you. You are going places.
Drama-Girl glanced up from her laptop through the glass walls of her office. The mail boy had paused at her door and slowly sorted envelopes. I’ll own this company one day.
I’d bet on it. I keep telling you how smart you are.
Thanks. You always make me feel so good. No one else understood her like Red Horseman.
She’d sent him pictures. The first few were sweet, safe. When Red Horseman had sent her a picture and she’d been pleased to see a darker, smokier version of Brad Pitt, she’d been so thrilled. Maybe she had found the one. Luv your eyes! Too cute!
God, she’d just passed her thirtieth birthday and was falling for a guy she’d never met. She’d read all the warnings, even watched those reality To-Catch-a-Bad-Guy-type shows but Red Horseman wasn’t like them. He never a
sked anything of her and gave her so much support. He was real, genuine. She could feel it in her bones.
So she’d sent him more explicit pictures. When she’d said she’d wanted to hook up, Red Horseman had suggested they go a little slower. He wanted her to be sure. It touched her that he was looking out for her well-being.
But Drama-Girl was anxious and so certain of her feelings. Waiting was overkill. Hey, let’s meet. I’m leaving town on business in a few days and I want to see you before I go. I am so sure of you.
The cursor blinked for several moments as if the machine was deep in thought. Are you?
His smiling picture stared at her, fueling feelings of a deep spiritual connection. I am very sure. When?
I’m leaving in three days on my trip. Tonight? Her fingers trembled with anticipation as she drummed them nervously on her desk.
Great. Where?
There’s a bar on Prince Street.
Renegades?
Yes.
I know it. Nine work?
It sure does, babe.
I can’t wait.
Neither can I.
Chapter 8
Tuesday, April 4, 5:26 A.M.
When Garrison returned to his office, Lieutenant LaPorta sat in one of the two metal chairs in front of his desk, her long legs outstretched, ankles crossed. Her head tipped forward as she studied the screen of her BlackBerry. LaPorta had always liked her gadgets, whereas he simply tolerated cell phones and pagers as necessary evils.
He passed by her and dropped his keys on the desk. Shrugging off his jacket, he hung it on the back of his chair. “What do you have? ”
She typed a message into the BlackBerry. “Where’s your partner in crime?”
“Kier? Tracking down backgrounds on a couple of our witnesses to the fire.”
She hit Send. She tucked the BlackBerry in the pocket of her dark blazer as if she had all the time in the world. “The fire was definitely arson. We tested the area for chemicals and the kitchen area lights up like a Christmas tree. I suspect gasoline, judging by the scent, but tests will confirm. A Molotov cocktail tossed at the front door as your witness suggested would have set the place ablaze.”