A Flame in the Wind of Death

by Ann Vanderlaan

  “If you look at it that way, he’s the concrete link between the killings,” Matt stated. “Someone familiar with both victims.”

  “Normally, family is the first group that we look at,” Leigh said. “More homicides are committed by family members than any other subset. But this man is handicapped. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “What if it was done for him?” Matt cast a quick glance at this father. “His partner, Aaron Dodsworth, has been tied to this case from the beginning.”

  “You think it’s Simpson’s motive that’s driving this, but Dodsworth is actually the killer?” Mike asked.

  “If it’s Simpson’s motive, then we haven’t figured it out yet. The last time I talked to him, he was going on and on about his wonderful mother and . . .” Her voice trailed off as she turned toward Matt. “Oh, that was subtle. So subtle I nearly missed it. He offered me an alibi for both himself and Dodsworth for the second killing. I didn’t ask him.”

  “You’d assume he was covering his own ass, but was he really covering for his partner?” Matt asked.

  “That’s a damned good question.” Leigh sat back in her chair. “Partners have certainly been known to lie to cover their lover’s tracks before.” Suddenly she stiffened and her hand clamped down on the edge of the table.

  Matt’s heart stuttered at the look on her face. “What?”

  “It couldn’t be . . .”

  “What?”

  “What if he wasn’t just providing an alibi for his partner, but was helping him with the murders instead?”

  “Only we could be that cursed.” The thought made Matt’s mouth go dry, but he forced himself to reason it through. “What are the chances that we’d catch two cases like that?”

  “I can’t imagine they’d be good, but you can’t deny the possibility,” Mike said. “Is there any evidence to link the son back to the killings?”

  Leigh shook her head. “Nothing. But once we work through the Witchcraft angle, we don’t have any solid ties to anyone. The fires have done a great job of destroying all the usual evidence we depend on—hair, fibers, epithelials.”

  “He could have had easy access to her Witchcraft tools though,” Matt said. “He could have taken them without her knowledge.”

  “Dodsworth could have had the same access through Simpson. They had her spare key,” Leigh said. “And there’s always the possibility that she may not have wanted them anymore. We know they weren’t sold through any pawn or Witchcraft shop, but that doesn’t rule out a private sale we’re unaware of. To Simpson’s credit, he looked wrecked and he always talks about Moira affectionately. He makes her sound like the most devoted of mothers.”

  “It would be very stressful to have a sick child like that,” Mike said. “I can’t imagine how hard it would be. We were lucky that Matt was never ill, but we did have some worrisome moments.”

  “Like when I fell out of the tree and broke my arm?”

  “That was one of those times. We thought you broke your neck, the way you laid there so still.” Mike looked across the table at Leigh. “He’s got a hard head, so we were lucky. He was just stunned.”

  “I’ve butted up against that hard head a few times.” Leigh softened her words by smiling at Matt.

  “But from a parent’s point of view, you would do whatever was needed to make your child healthy. If there was nothing you could do, it would be horrible to stand by helplessly and watch your child suffer.”

  An idea suddenly blossomed in Matt’s mind, an idea so horrific it made his stomach clench. He turned slowly to Leigh. “Can we get his medical records?”

  Leigh blinked at him in confusion. “Flynn’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d have to have a damned good reason for it. No judge is going to just give carte blanche permission to look at private health records. Why do you want to see them?”

  Matt stalled for time as he ran the scenario through in his head again, trying to decide if it was too outlandish to be possible. To cover, he ate several bites and washed it down with the last of his wine without tasting either. “Something’s been bothering me since I first saw him. I won’t know if it’s a possibility until I see those records but I think his disease is too progressed for his age. And that makes me wonder why.”

  For a moment, questions clouded Leigh’s eyes. Then they went wide with a mixture of clarity and horror.

  But it was Mike who spoke first. “You’re suggesting he was abused?”

  “I’m probably way off base here and grasping at straws. He could have been a clumsy child; some kids aren’t very coordinated. And with every fall or bump, he’d lose mobility, making him more uncoordinated.”

  “But if someone was abusing him, wouldn’t that show?” Leigh asked.

  Matt shook his head. “Not necessarily. Sometimes abuse can be subtle. If you know where to place a blow, it can be hidden by clothing. Then threaten worse harm if the child tells.”

  “Are you thinking the priest abused the child?” Mike asked.

  “It’s been known to happen. Maybe he told his mother and she didn’t believe him.”

  Leigh leaned back in her chair, drumming her fingers on the table. “So you want the medical records to go toward establishing motive. Giving Dodsworth a reason to take revenge on his lover’s abusers since the lover isn’t capable. That’s the first motive I’ve heard that makes sense.”

  “But will it convince a judge?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll give it a try tomorrow. If we’re successful, it could take a day or two to get our hands on the records.”

  “If it’s Dodsworth, then why the pentacle on the door?” Mike asked.

  “To throw blame on the Witchcraft community,” Leigh said. “Worked pretty well too. Between the pentacle and the athame from the first killing, those were the only suspects we were looking at. The problem there was that nothing panned out as a lead for us, but the killer doesn’t know that, not the way the Salem Times keeps ragging on this story.” She pushed her empty plate away and relaxed back in her chair. “That was wonderful, Mike. Thank you.”

  Matt surveyed the food. During the conversation they’d all cleaned their plates, but there was still plenty left. “See what I mean? Army regiment.”

  “And yet somehow nothing ever gets thrown away,” Mike said.

  “That’s because you send it in with me to the lab, and Paul and Juka inhale everything in sight.” Matt glanced over at Leigh and rolled his eyes. “Grad students.”

  She laughed and pushed back from the table. “Don’t forget, you were one of those once. Let me help you clear this up.” When Mike protested, she held out a hand to stop him. “I insist.”

  Mike reluctantly conceded with a slight bow of his head. “Then we can have those lovely pastries you brought. And Matt’s going to make cappuccino.”

  Leigh stood, stacking the plates and carrying them to the sink. “No more shoptalk. It’s time to give all of us a break from death and mayhem. Tell me more about Matt falling out of the tree.”

  Matt stopped abruptly, halfway to the counter, a large salad bowl in his arms. “You don’t want to hear stories of my childhood.”

  “I certainly do.”

  She grinned at him, and, in that moment, he would have shared every embarrassing story to see her so easy and relaxed. But he put on a good show nonetheless. “Fine,” he grumbled. He glared at his father. “But not the one about getting stuck on Heather McDonald’s roof.”

  Mike let out a booming laugh. “I’d forgotten about that. Oh, Leigh, you’re going to like that one. One of the better stories of Matt’s teenage years.”

  Their moods buoyed, they cleared the table as stories and laughter flowed freely.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: REKINDLE

  * * *

  Rekindle: restarting of a fire several hours after it was extinguished because of residual heat or hidden embers remaining after improper or incomplete overhaul.

  Monday, 5:05 p.m.

&nb
sp; Essex Detective Unit

  Salem, Massachusetts

  Leigh practically jogged through the unit corridors toward the bullpen. She knew from checking earlier that several of the chemical companies she’d talked to that morning had already replied. Those emails would contain lists of all the companies in the area that purchased red phosphorus in the past two years. She knew she was throwing the net wide, but she preferred getting too much information rather than wasting time having to go back and ask again.

  She was just passing the conference room when her phone rang. “Leigh Abbott.”

  “It’s Bree. I’ve plugged your leak. Permanently.”

  Leigh stopped at the doorway to the bullpen. “Really? No more screaming newspaper headlines?”

  “I don’t know about that, but I can guarantee there won’t be any more information coming from the fire department. That weasel will have to find another snitch for his information.”

  “It was one of the Salem boys?”

  “Yes.” Disgust coated Bree’s tone. “One of the rookies is the younger brother of some guy Wells went to school with, so he’s known Wells for years. All Wells had to do was take him out for a few beers and he told Wells everything he knew. I had words with him, and then the chief had a go at him. Let me assure you, he won’t say a damned thing to a reporter ever again. He may not speak for the next few weeks period, because I think he swallowed his tongue while I was reaming him out.”

  “I’m sorry I had to stick you with this, but thanks for getting to the bottom of it.”

  “My pleasure. I really hated my mornings starting with a bang, so now maybe I can go back to enjoying the newspaper with my coffee again. Talk to you later.”

  Leigh rounded the corner into her cubicle with a smile on her face. But the smile melted away the moment she saw the envelope lying neatly on her desk. The sudden adrenaline rush had her stomach clutching and her heart tripping unevenly in her chest.

  Leigh quickly looked around the bullpen. Two other detectives were in their cubicles, but they had their heads down. One of them was on the phone while the other pecked at his keyboard with both index fingers, occasionally cursing when he hit the wrong key. Leigh lowered herself into her desk chair, relieving legs that suddenly felt unsteady. She braced damp palms on the edge of the desk and gave herself a moment to study the envelope.

  Manila, eight by ten inches. Her name and the detective unit’s address in black marker. Handwriting identical to the last time. Boston postmark again. No return address.

  She closed her eyes just for a second, pulling herself together.

  A biting curse from beyond her cubicle reminded her that she wasn’t alone. Ripping a sheet off the scratch pad on her desk, she used it to pick up the envelope and jam it into her messenger bag. Then she sagged back in her chair as the piece of paper drifted from her fingers and fell unnoticed to the worn carpet below.

  Another one.

  But this time she wasn’t alone. She speed dialed Matt. “I’ve just received some information I want to discuss with you,” she said brightly when he picked up. She sat up a little straighter, peering over the top of her cubicle. Two dark heads, both bent over their work. No doubt they were totally ignoring her but she wasn’t about to let on. “But you need to see it in person.”

  “Information? Can you be more specif—” Matt cut himself off. “Damn it, you got another package. Same as last time?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “You sound funny. Is someone else there?”

  “Yes. Is this afternoon convenient for you?”

  “Of course it’s convenient for me. I’m just coming back from the Old North Church so I’m already in the car. I’ll meet you at your place.”

  “All right.”

  “We do this together, Leigh. Don’t start without me. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  Leigh ended the call and surged to her feet. To her surprise, the shock of the initial discovery was melting away and determination now stiffened her spine.

  I’ll be there as fast as I can.

  She wasn’t alone anymore. She had a partner willing to work shoulder-to-shoulder with her.

  Together, they’d figure this out.

  Monday, 5:31 p.m.

  Abbott Residence

  Salem, Massachusetts

  Leigh sat on her front step, flanked by a large russet chrysanthemum and a tumbled pile of mini-pumpkins. In the distance, the sky darkened and anvil-shaped thunderclouds signaled a coming storm. The wind whipped her unbound hair around her face and she impatiently tucked it behind her ear. To occupy herself while she waited, Leigh pinched a single bloom from the chrysanthemum and focused on pulling individual dark-red petals from the head, scattering them like bloody teardrops around her feet.

  The flower tumbled to the ground at the sound of gravel crunching as Matt’s SUV pulled to the curb in front of her house.

  She met him halfway down the front walk. “You got here fast.”

  “I figured you could fix my ticket if I got caught speeding.” He caught her by both shoulders, his hazel eyes serious as they searched her face. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She laid her hands on his hips and allowed herself a moment to just hold on. “I feel steadier this time. Part of it is knowing I’m not on my own.”

  “No, you’re not. And if I’m not enough, you know Dad or the students will do whatever you need.” Turning her, he slid an arm around her waist and walked her up the front path. “Like it or not, you’re part of this group now. And we take care of our own.”

  “There’s that watchful protector coming out in you.”

  They stepped into the quiet house and Leigh pushed the door closed against a particularly blustery gust of wind. She led the way into the kitchen, where her bag sat in the middle of the table beside a long, thin letter opener.

  After donning latex gloves, Leigh slit open the envelope. She took a deep breath and peered inside.

  There were two items—a blurry photograph and a sheet of paper. She removed the photograph first, angling it for Matt. The image was black-and-white with the grainy appearance of security footage. The photo was time-stamped 01/13/2008, 10:49 p.m. and showed two men talking in the shadows. Over their heads, a neon light spelled out Bruno’s Tavern.

  Matt leaned into her, studying the photo. “I don’t recognize the people or the place.”

  Leigh pointed at the man who was angled toward the camera. He wore a heavy coat and a cap pulled down low over his brow, his shoulders hunched against the cold. “That’s Dad.” She pulled the photo closer, studying it. “I can’t tell who the other person is. That bit of profile isn’t enough and his hat’s pulled down over his ears.”

  “That’s significant?”

  “Ears can be as individual as fingerprints in making an ID. There might be enough facial features in this picture to confirm identity if we can get a lead on who this might be, but it’s certainly not anyone I recognize.” She flipped the photo over. “No message on the back this time.”

  “Is this close to your father’s death?”

  “The month before. This looks like a meet to me. Maybe an informant?”

  “Someone inside the drug ring they were investigating? Where’s Bruno’s Tavern?”

  “North Salem. We’ve had some trouble in that area before.”

  “Drug trouble?”

  “Which then led to other trouble, like assaults. Dad was investigating one of the deaths.”

  Matt studied the photo again. “I don’t see anything else here. I think you’re supposed to know who the other man is.”

  Leigh glanced over her shoulder to meet his eyes. “Or I’m supposed to find out.”

  “What’s on the other page?”

  Leigh picked up the paper, holding it between them. “It’s a phone log from a cell carrier.” A long string of calls with associated dates, call times and destination numbers filled the page. Three individual calls were highlighted in fluorescent yellow. “It’
s the summary from a phone subpoena.”

  “Some of these calls go to your cell.” Matt pinned her with an intense stare. “Why are you on this list?”

  She was silent for several seconds, her eyes locked on the call log. Then she set the page down on the table. “Because these calls all originated from my dad’s cell phone. Of course he’d call me.”

  “Then whose is the number in yellow? Do you recognize it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s got to be something related to all this. Maybe it’s the man in the photograph.”

  “Maybe.”

  He reached over and nudged her chin with one finger, tilting her face up toward his. “You shutting me out?”

  The concern in his eyes warmed her. She reached up to stroke her fingers over the back of his hand. “No, just thinking. Trying to connect some of the dots.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember what the previous picture said on the back? Your father wasn’t the hero you think he was. He was a dirty cop. Soon the world will know it. And you’ll be the one to pay for his crimes.”

  “Like I’m going to forget that,” Matt muttered.

  “Whoever is sending this is trying to make it clear my father was dirty.” She tapped the photo with a gloved index finger. “This looks like a deal going down.”

  “A drug deal? Do you mean to say—”

  “I don’t.” She said it quietly, but with absolute certainty. “My father and I meant the world to each other. I knew when something was bothering him, when he had a good or bad day. And he knew the same about me. If he’d been doing this, I’d have known.”

  “Are you sure? As much as we don’t like to admit it, sometimes we don’t know the people in our lives as well as we think we do.”

  She swiveled to face him so quickly he took a half step back in surprise. “Would you know if something was off with your dad?”

  “Sure, I would because . . .” The light went on behind his eyes. “Because we’re all the family we have left for each other. The connection between us is vital.” He nodded in understanding. “I get your point, but I also hope you get mine. I wasn’t saying that your dad was dirty. I’m just trying to look at all the possibilities.”