A Flame in the Wind of Death

by Ann Vanderlaan

  “What about it?”

  “You mentioned that you kept the commercial keys here at the house.”

  “Yes.”

  “How are those keys labeled?”

  “Each has its own tag with the name of the property and the address.”

  “Did Mr. Simpson know where you kept them?”

  Blood drained from Dodworth’s cheeks as his mouth sagged open briefly, but he recovered quickly. “I never showed them to Flynn and he doesn’t have a personal interest in my individual listings, so I’m sure he doesn’t know where they’re kept.”

  “I see. One more question then while I have you. Can I ask where you were last Thursday evening?”

  She saw it only because she was watching specifically for his reaction. Just the tiniest of clues: His eyes widening ever so slightly as they flicked up and to her left. His weight shifting to his off foot. The speed of his answer.

  “Flynn and I were here on Thursday night.”

  “Are you sure?” Leigh pressed. “Most people need to think about where they were the week before.”

  “Yes, I am. It was somewhat memorable because evenings like that don’t happen very often for us.” He laughed lightly and threw a hand out toward the dining-room table, covered with paperwork and house brochures. “I don’t often get an evening off. So when I actually do have a night off, we try to enjoy it. Flynn came home early, and we had dinner and then stayed in and watched a movie.”

  “Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr. Dodsworth.” Leigh stepped onto the front porch and briskly strode down the front walk.

  Back in her Crown Vic, Leigh glanced up at the house. Dodsworth stood frozen in the open doorway, watching them with an unreadable expression. She pulled into traffic. “You might not have caught it, but Dodsworth just made a mistake.”

  “You mean besides nearly panicking when you asked him about the keys? Did I miss something?”

  “It’s not so much that you missed it, it’s that you weren’t there when I interviewed Simpson. It’s their story—Dodsworth had the night off, so they had dinner and stayed in and watched a movie.”

  “Yeah. Isn’t that our main problem for this case because they alibi each other out?”

  “It might be except their stories don’t match. They do partly—they had dinner and stayed in and watched a movie. In fact, that part matches so well it sounds rehearsed. As in This is our story, let’s go over it again kind of rehearsed. When you talk to subjects, even if they tell the same story, if it’s unrehearsed, they always use different wording. But rehearsed stories always match a little too well—they use the same wording or the same cadence because they’ve practiced it together over and over. But they contradict each other on an important detail. Simpson said that Dodsworth came home early. Dodsworth said Simpson came home early. One of them isn’t telling the truth. Or, more likely, both of them.”

  Matt grinned at her. “Nice catch.”

  “Thanks.” She turned toward downtown. “He gave it away before that though. I caught his reaction the moment I asked him to confirm Simpson’s alibi. His body language definitely said ‘deception’ to me.”

  “Would this stand up in a court of law as evidence?”

  “I wouldn’t put money on it. A good lawyer would run circles around it. I was the only one to hear Simpson’s alibi and there’s no record of it. Still, it might be enough to start to put doubt in the jury’s mind. But let’s not try to make this all we’ve got.”

  “We’re going to the Boatworks, then? To hit Simpson and follow up on the red phosphorus?”

  She grinned at him and gave the car more gas. “Oh yeah. Let’s nail his ass to the wall.”

  Tuesday, 5:52 p.m.

  Salem Boatworks

  Salem, Massachusetts

  “I’m sorry, you just missed him.”

  Leigh planted both hands on the reception counter. “What do you mean we just missed him? He’s supposed to be here until six.”

  “Yes, that’s right. But he got a call about ten minutes ago. I transferred it back to him and then the next thing I knew, he was flying out the door.” The receptionist colored and bit her lower lip. “Well, you know what I mean. Flynn doesn’t fly anywhere because of—”

  “Yes, I know.” Impatience whipped out the words with more edge than Leigh intended. “Where did he go?”

  “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask him since—”

  “Does he drive?”

  The woman stared at her in confusion. “He drives the sedan his mother bought him—”

  “Thank you.” Leigh spun, grabbing Matt’s arm and pulling him after her. Once outside, they hurried back to the car.

  “What just happened?” Matt demanded.

  “Dodsworth must have given him the heads-up that we stopped by,” she nearly snarled. “He guessed—correctly—that we’d head straight here.” Her open palm smacked down hard on the steering wheel. “Damn it, now he’s in the wind.”

  She looked up when she felt Matt’s hand on her arm.

  “Let’s think this through,” he said. “He’s less than ten minutes ahead of us. Let’s assume that you’re right and Dodsworth called him and told him that we were at the house asking about the key. Now he’s on the run. Surely he wouldn’t go home. He knows we’d look for him there.”

  Leigh heaved out a frustrated breath and sat back in her seat, forcing herself to slow down and think. “The only reason he’d run is because he thinks we’re on to him.”

  “Which we are. But where would he go? With his disability, he simply can’t melt into a crowd. People will remember the stooped man with the frozen left side. And he can’t drive to another state and pick up some odd job you don’t need references for. He’s not capable of manual labor.”

  “He’s distinctive, so he can’t disappear. What about . . .” An idea washed over her like a bucket of ice water. “Oh, no.”

  “What?” From the alarm in Matt’s voice, he was picking up on her apprehension.

  “What if he’s not done? What if he wants to finish off the next person on his list before he gets caught?”

  “You think he’s got more?”

  “I don’t know but what if he does? We’re running on the theory that he’s killing those responsible for his physical condition—his mother—or those that didn’t step in to stop his injuries—like the priest. Who else would he go after? Friends of the family? Distant relatives who weren’t in the picture to help? His family doctor?”

  “What about the doctor who saw him most often?” Matt suggested. “Not the family doctor, but the orthopedist?”

  “Didn’t he see a lot of specialists?”

  “He did. But from what I saw in those files, Moira kept coming back to one in particular for his regular care. There were a large number of doctors involved, but this orthopedic specialist was the one he saw the most. Until a few years ago, that is. Then he didn’t go to him anymore. I suspect that’s when he moved out and started to call his own shots. Maybe there was a reason he went somewhere else for his care.”

  Leigh dug her phone out of her pocket. “You’re talking about Dr. Robert McAllister at Mass Gen? The one I got the records from earlier?”

  “Yes. Think about it—surely the doctor who treated him consistently might have suspected some sort of subtle abuse.”

  “Or maybe Simpson tried to confide in him and wasn’t believed there either. Something happened to cause that break between them.” She picked up her Bluetooth earpiece from the dash and slid it into place, quickly dialing 4-1-1. “Boston. Massachusetts General Hospital.”

  She flipped on lights and siren as she sped down the crowded street, cursing the increased tourist traffic at this time of year as cars reluctantly pulled over to get out of her way. “This is Trooper Leigh Abbott of the Massachusetts State Police. I need to contact Dr. Robert McAllister in orthopedics.” She blew through a red light. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Matt grab the side handle of the door as they lurched aro
und a corner.

  After a brief conversation with the receptionist at orthopedics, Leigh pulled her notepad and pen out of her pocket and tossed them to Matt.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “McAllister is off today, but I’m the second person to call in the last ten minutes looking for him. She won’t give me his address but I’ve talked her into giving me his phone number. She’s gone to look it up. I need you to write it down.”

  When the receptionist returned, Leigh repeated the number out loud for Matt, then ended the call. Matt was already reaching for her phone to enter McAllister’s number.

  The phone rang four times then went to voice mail. “Dr. McAllister, this is Trooper Leigh Abbott of the Massachusetts State Police. I need you to call me back immediately upon getting this message. I’m concerned your life may be in danger.” She rattled off her phone number and clicked off, then pulled off the road into a convenience-store parking lot.

  “Now what do we do?” Matt asked.

  “We go to him.” She took her phone from him, speed dialing a familiar number. “It’s Abbott. I need an APB out on a vehicle and I need an address. No, don’t put me on hold. I need it now. There’s a life at stake.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: ADVANCING A LINE

  * * *

  Advancing a Line: progress made by fire crews as they move a line of hose forward and away from the engine while fighting a fire.

  Tuesday, 6:21 p.m.

  McAllister Residence

  Marblehead, Massachusetts

  They spotted the black sedan the moment they turned onto the street. Leigh immediately pulled to the curb and cut the engine.

  “Is that him?” Matt asked.

  Leigh squinted at the license plate. “It’s too far away. Let’s check it out. We’ll confirm when we get closer.”

  As they hurried down the sidewalk, Leigh unbuttoned her jacket and ran her palm over the butt of her gun. She needed to be ready, just in case. But even knowing she was ready didn’t quiet her suddenly thumping heart.

  The sun had set over thirty minutes earlier and the deepening gloom of twilight threw long shadows over the sidewalk and street. The silvery light of a nearly full moon flickered overhead through the branches of trees dancing in the cool breeze. Tomorrow was Halloween, and all up and down the length of the street, grand historic houses were dressed for the occasion— filmy white ghosts floated from roof lines, cobwebs dripped from spindly tree branches, and gravestones jutted from front lawns, a skeletal hand reaching from beyond as if to snare the ankle of a passerby. When a sudden gust of wind whistled around them and a branch over their heads groaned, she nearly jumped.

  Calm down. They’re just Halloween decorations; no one is going to jump out at you. Besides, you’re armed.

  Then her gaze settled on the stuffed raven perched on top of a gravestone a few feet away. A chill ran down her spine as her own words rang in her head: The Raven, a creature of the shadows. The harbinger of ill portent. An omen. Darkness lies ahead.

  She resolutely turned away from the shadows and looked down the street instead. “There is it. Number fifty-nine.” Leigh pointed to the large clapboard house that sat close to the street. Three stories tall and nearly two hundred years old, it was a huge house with more than a dozen windows across the front face of the building and clustered around a grand, glass-paned front door. An intricate wrought-iron railing ran from the squared porch down steps covered with a tiered cascade of colorful chrysanthemums.

  Grasping Matt’s arm, she pulled him back against the trunk of a century-old tree, hiding them from view of the house. “That’s the right license plate. I’m calling this in. I want backup.”

  “It’s like Hershey’s house all over again,” Matt said, his eyes locked on the sedan at the curb.

  Her gaze flicked to his stony face. Neither of them would ever forget what happened only weeks ago in John Hershey’s kitchen. Or the resulting fallout.

  If Matt noticed her searching look, he didn’t comment on it. “We can’t wait for backup,” he continued. “Simpson could have McAllister dead and a fire set by the time they get here. We have to go in now.”

  “I know.” Leigh pulled out her cell phone and quickly made the call, giving their location and asking for backup from both State and local police. “They’re on their way,” she told Matt. Quickly going down on one knee and pushing up her pant leg to reveal an ankle holster, she freed a snub-nosed pistol and handed it to Matt. “Your Glock’s at home. Until the real backup arrives, you’re my backup and I want you armed.” She unholstered her service weapon. “Let’s go.”

  Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, they crept forward. A short, wrought-iron fence separated the house from the street, and Leigh vaulted over it at the corner. Matt followed, trailing behind her as she crept low under the front windows. She froze for a moment, one hand held out, signaling Matt to stop.

  Several seconds passed, but there was no sound or movement from within.

  Leigh jerked her head sharply toward the door and was about to step forward when Matt grabbed her arm. She turned back to him, and the expression on his face made her blood freeze. “What?” she hissed.

  “Do you smell that?”

  She stared at him, remembering another moment when his sharper sense of smell had saved their lives. Then she caught it, just a whiff of a sweet oily scent. “What is that?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “It’s been a long time since I went camping, but I swear that’s kerosene.”

  “To start another fire? But why change MO now?”

  “Maybe we cut him off from his supplies. Maybe he was keeping the red phosphorus at home and couldn’t go back for it. Kerosene is readily available and will make a damned big fire without the explosive danger of something like gasoline. He wants to set a fire, not blow the house into a pile of matchsticks with himself still inside.”

  Leigh was already pulling out her phone, kneeling down on the grass to stay out of sight, pulling Matt down with her.

  “Bree Gilson.”

  “It’s Leigh Abbott. We have a situation on our hands. I think our arsonist is Flynn Simpson and he’s about to strike again.”

  Bree’s voice came over the line crisp and no-nonsense. “The first victim’s son?”

  “Yes. It’s a long story and I don’t have time for details but Matt and I are in Marblehead outside the home of Simpson’s orthopedic surgeon and we can smell kerosene.”

  Bree swore. “You think he’s going after the surgeon next?”

  “Yes.”

  “How strong is the smell?”

  “Not that strong outside, but assuming he’s using it inside, if we can smell it out here there must be quite a bit. We’re going in now, so we’ll know more shortly.”

  “Whoa. Wait a second. You can’t go in. If he’s using accelerant, that thing could go up like a tinderbox.”

  Matt’s gaze was fixed on Leigh’s face, following the conversation even if only from her end. The set of his jaw alone told her he was with her. “We don’t have any choice. Police backup is coming, but we need your guys down here.” She quickly rattled off the address.

  “I’ll get them out there ASAP. But be careful. One spark of any kind and you’re in big trouble. That includes gunshots.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Hurry.” She hung up, not even waiting for a response. “She’s not happy we’re going in.”

  “I’m sure she’s not. But she’s both cop and firefighter—part of her understands what we have to do.”

  “She also made one point very clear—a gunshot might produce a spark big enough to burn the place down. The gun’s just for show unless you have absolutely no other way to defend yourself.”

  They crept the rest of the way to the front steps and then up to the front door. Leigh tried the handle—locked. Making a snap decision, she flipped the gun in her hand, grasping the barrel. “Watch yourself.”

  “What are you doing?”

&
nbsp; “Door’s locked and we have no time to waste. We have the right to enter as we suspect someone is in jeopardy.” She shattered the pane of glass nearest the door handle in a single strike. Several sharp taps knocked out the remaining shards and she slipped her hand through, throwing back the dead bolt with a click.

  “Unless Simpson’s deaf, he now knows we’re here, and he might be armed. Stay behind me,” she ordered.

  She eased the door open, and stopped momentarily in the doorway, listening intently for any sound. When only silence met her ears, she eased open the door a little further and slipped through the gap, Matt right behind her.

  They stood in an open foyer, flanked by living and dining rooms. The decor clearly spoke of wealth and quiet class. Old money at its finest.

  A scuffling noise from upstairs drew her attention to the main staircase.

  Leigh’s heart stuttered and her mouth went dry.

  Liquid spilled down the stairs in a thin stream to pool on the floor below. Kerosene. When the fire started, it would instantly spread to engulf the house, and it would block any hope of exit. Tapping Matt’s arm, she held her finger to her lips and then pointed to the trail of kerosene. His lips parted on an intake of breath, but he made no sound.

  She pointed upwards and then picked her way quietly to the foot of the stairs. She looked up into the gloom above them, then cast a furtive glance back at the front door. Their only means of escape potentially cut off by flames and a trail of accelerant. We’ll just have to prevent the fire from happening.

  Pressing her back against the wall and holding her gun in front of her, Leigh carefully eased up the stairs, testing each tread before trusting her weight to it. Simpson might know that someone was in the house, but he didn’t know where they were and she wanted to keep it that way. She carefully stepped around the kerosene trail. If it got onto the soles of their shoes, it could be a death sentence.

  They were halfway up the stairs when they heard more scuffling and a low moan. Leigh froze, using her free hand to press Matt back against the wall. They stood motionless for several seconds, but the sound wasn’t repeated. Leigh continued her slow stalk up the staircase, Matt a shadow right behind her.