by CJ Lyons
Thick, black smoke filled the air. A new wall of flames broke out behind her as the fire found the rag rug. She crawled towards the door, eyes squinted shut, filled with smoke and tears. Her lungs burned as she held her breath against the searing air.
Move, move, move was her mantra, keeping in time to the pounding in her ears as she scooted across the floor.
She didn't have far to go, less than eight feet, but it was like swimming through black tar. She hoped she still headed in the right direction as she pressed her body as low to the floor as possible.
Finally she hit the glass of the sidelight, felt her way up to the doorknob and fell through the opening to the porch outside.
She lay there like a freshly hooked trout in a fisherman's creel, gasping for air. Flames, fed by the new oxygen source, sped after her, shooting through the open door, reaching out towards her.
Coughing, Cassie pulled her feet under her and ran. Fire sparked on the lawn as flames rained down from the roof. She dodged these, zigzagging down the porch steps. Her neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Ferraro, appeared on their porch across the street.
"Roll, roll," Mr. Ferraro shouted in what seemed to Cassie like a foreign language. He met her in the middle of the street, hauled her down onto the asphalt, and began to tumble her body.
It wasn't until then that Cassie realized she was on fire.
CHAPTER 26
Drake was still trading barbs with the IAD detectives at 9:30 pm. Figured the longer he kept these two goofballs tied up, the more freedom Jimmy and the real detectives would have to do their jobs. Maybe even actually find the actor who shot Burns instead of making assumptions without any evidence.
Which was what Ventura and Sandosky were doing. Had been doing for the past five hours. Hansen kept looking at his watch like he was late for the symphony, but Drake didn't care.
"So you still claim you have no knowledge of the victim's movements after you vacated the bar?" Ventura asked, trying to impress Drake with his vocabulary.
"No."
"Witnesses state she left with you."
"No. I was with Spanos in the alley behind it, then I left alone."
"How about her movements in the bar?" Sandosky cut in. "Do you remember those?"
"I was only with her for twenty minutes or so–"
"According to the bartender, it was an hour. During that time you drank a beer, a Long Island iced tea, and a total of two shots of whiskey."
Drake looked up at that. It had been a long time since he'd had that much to drink in one sitting. Probably since last year and Pamela. He grimaced. Think he'd grow up and learn one day. But it wasn't enough to explain his hangover symptoms this morning. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that Burns had drugged him.
He replayed the bits and pieces of the night that he could remember. Saw her handing him his beer. Then her drink.
She could have easily slipped something into either. But why? Surely not to set him up for her own murder.
And who the hell shot her?
"And your only alibi is Dr. Hart?" Sandosky interrupted Drake's chaotic thoughts.
"I slept on her couch."
"But she can't verify this?"
"She wasn't watching over me all night long, but she could tell you what time I arrived at her house. Anything more and you'd have to ask her–I was dead to the world."
They looked up at that. Poor choice of words. This was definitely wearing thin.
The two detectives exchanged glances, sensing he was close to breaking. More from irritation than their cutting-edge interviewing techniques, but they didn't know that. "Do you have a backup gun registered to you?"
"You know I do. Two, in fact. The Glock on my ankle right now and a Baretta nine millimeter."
"Where is the nine millimeter?"
"Secured in a lockbox bolted to the trunk of my car. Per department regulations." Too late, he saw where they were going. And he had no choice but go along for the ride if he wanted to know what they knew.
Ventura smiled and it wasn't a pretty sight. "Would it surprise you to learn we found your gun in a storm drain across the street from your apartment building?"
"Or that it's the same weapon used to kill Monica Burns?" Sandosky added.
Shit. But it made sense. Whoever took his car would have had keys to the trunk and lock box. It was only damn luck he'd had the locks changed on his apartment and Jimmy had the only keys—otherwise the frame would have been air tight and Burns would have been killed there.
So. Someone at the Stone—like Spanos. Or someone who followed Drake there. Which could have been anyone. Or someone Burns called after she drugged him. She must not have realized that she was also being set up as a victim. Damnit, all this and back to square one.
"What? No comment? Detective, did we hit a sore spot?" Sandosky asked.
The door opened and Janet Kwon entered. "Drake, Jimmy just called. Something's happened to Hart."
Drake was on his feet before she could say anything more.
"Where are you going, Drake? We're not done yet!"
"We can finish later," Drake told them.
"My client is here of his own volition," Hansen reminded the IA team.
"If he leaves now it's without his badge and gun," Ventura said.
Drake spun on his heel to glare at the excuse for a police officer in front of him. They didn't have the authority to suspend him, not without going through their superiors, but he didn't care.
All he cared about right now was Hart. Drake flipped his badge onto the table then removed his Glock from its holster, spinning it across to Ventura, followed by his Baby Glock from his ankle holster. The IA detective was startled and fumbled at the guns like he'd never held one before.
"Let's go," he told Kwon, stalking from the interview room.
"Is she all right?" Drake asked once the elevator doors had closed behind them and there were no prying ears or video cameras.
"I don't know. There were a bunch of 911 calls on the scanner for fire and EMS to her neighborhood. Then Jimmy called and said to get you over there, so here I am."
Drake digested this, trying to ignore the knotting of his stomach. Too little information. It might not even be her, he told himself. Don't waste energy on worry until you know for certain what's going on.
That's what his mind was saying. The rest of his body surged with adrenalin, ready to fly to Hart's side.
Kwon was smart enough to know this, handing him the car keys to her departmental Intrepid without him even asking. Drake appreciated that; anyone else would have wasted precious moments arguing with him.
As they sped through the light Sunday night traffic, Kwon tried to raise Jimmy on his cell. "No answer," she told him. Drake clamped his jaw tight and hit the accelerator.
<><><>
"Keep that oxygen on now," the paramedic told Cassie before glancing away from her to the spectacle of the fire. He wasn't the only one fascinated. The entire neighborhood turned out to watch the firefighters in their futile attempt to save her house.
Cassie clamped the oxygen mask back on her face then let it drop once more as soon as his back was turned. They were just annoyed because she had refused transport. Medics got touchy about things like that.
She shivered despite the summer heat. She was lucky. A few minor cuts and burns, but Gram Rosa's quilt had taken the brunt of the damage. The lining was seared, but the carefully pieced quilt top had been next to Cassie's body and had sustained only minor cosmetic damage. The quilt now resided safe at hand in a red plastic biohazard bag.
"Everyone back," a fireman called. The crowd looked up in anticipation as the roof bucked then twisted, finally wrenching free from the feeble bonds that tied it to the earth. There was the sound of a deep sigh as if the roof were trying to take flight. It collapsed inward, sending a new shower of sparks and flames into the night sky.
Cassie worried about Hennessey while a few of the onlookers clapped and cheered, the ones who broug
ht their own beer and chairs.
Most of Cassie's neighbors shook their heads and looked over at her with expressions of relief. Relief that she hadn't been seriously injured, but most of all that it had happened to her and not them.
Watching her home burn was almost as bad as watching her father die all over again. His furniture and books and collection of records–all fodder for the flames. Her mother had died when Cassie was born and the only memory she had of her was a portrait Drake painted based on the photos jammed into albums on her bookshelves. The same bookshelves the fire devoured so eagerly as it chased after Cassie.
Gone also were any trace of Padraic and Rosa–except for Rosa's quilt. Gram Rosa's quilt saved her life when she escaped from the Nazis. Cassie wasn't surprised this seemingly frail piece of silk and velvet had been the sole survivor of the current holocaust that had overtaken her family.
Just as she was. The sole surviving Hart, the last person alive with any of Rosa Costello's blood, at least living on American soil.
All alone. And what to do next? Out of a job, out of money, out of a home. Out of options.
Cassie watched as the brick walls teetered then fell. She wanted to cry, but the tears had been seared from her by the heat and smoke.
She wanted to scream in anger and frustration but her throat was burnt raw and the only sound she could make was a small croak.
She wanted to hit something, to strike back at the human who so callously took everything she had except her life.
But there was no one there.
Naked as a newborn. She'd lost her job, her home, the few mementos of her past. Whoever had done this had stripped her clean of all encumbrances.
Except Drake.
He would be the most painful piece of herself to shed. But necessary.
Cassie closed her eyes against the glare of headlights and the dancing flames. Very necessary. Because it was the only way to keep him safe.
Whoever had done this had intended to terrorize her. But what Cassie felt wasn't fear.
Cassie was angry. And willing to do anything to protect the only important thing left in her life: Drake.
Her eyes flicked open and she scrutinized the crowd gawking at the death throes of her house. He was out there somewhere, she was certain.
As she watched, she slid her hand inside the bag and stroked the soft velvet and silk. The quilt had the blood of a Nazi soldier soaked into one of the pieces, a soldier killed by her grandmother's own hand.
She shrugged off the oxygen mask and stood up, moving in a circle, her shadow cavorting in the strange light cast by the fire. Come and get me, she broadcast the invitation with her gaze as she looked upon the strangers gathered around the corpse of her home, of her life.
Come out, come out, whoever you are.
<><><>
She was weaving her way around the EMS vehicles when Jimmy Dolan and Ed Castro, her old boss at Three Rivers, appeared from down the block. Their worried expressions did the asking for them.
"I'm fine," she told both men. "I can't find Hennessey, though." She said the last with a one-shouldered shrug, knowing it sounded pathetic after losing everything else, but she couldn't help it. The thought of Hennessey caught inside the house—
"I'll go look," Ed volunteered while Jimmy wrapped his arm around her shoulder and guided her back to the ambulance.
"You sure you don't need to go to the ER, get checked out?" he asked. "The medics said you refused treatment."
Cassie ignored him, riveted by the death throes of her house. "It's a total loss, isn't it?" she asked, her voice still hoarse but gaining in strength.
Jimmy nodded and squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry."
The final flames were doused and the firefighters began the messy work of unearthing any smoldering embers that might cause further problems.
Cassie could bear to watch no longer.
She strode away from the ruins of her home and found Ed Castro searching the neighbor's forsythia for Hennessey. If the cat got out, she would be fine. And if she didn't—she couldn't bear watching the firemen unearth Hennessey's remains. She rubbed a knuckle over her eyes. Still no tears but it wasn't for lack of trying. "Got room on the couch?"
"Always. Are you done here?"
"Yes. I'm finished."
CHAPTER 27
Drake arrived just in time to see Hart drive off with Ed Castro. He ran after her, but then stopped and let her go, his insides feeling as charred as the blackened timbers that were all that remained of her house. What would he do if he caught her? It would break him to have to let her go again.
Jimmy arrived. "Where's Hart?"
"She left," Drake faced his partner. "What've you got for me on Burns?"
Jimmy took a small notebook from his back pocket and leafed through it.
"No useable prints or trace evidence."
"Any idea how he got inside?"
"That's what bothers me–no signs of forced entry at all."
"So we've got an intruder who goes through locked doors and alarm systems without a trace."
"Like a fucking ghost."
"Or a cat," Drake put in, spotting movement from beneath a parked fire chief's car. "Gimme a hand here," he told Jimmy, crawling under the rear bumper, making tiny clucking noises with his tongue.
"Jimmy, go around. She's trying to run away," he called out as the quivering ball of fur moved away from his arms. Jimmy's feet moved towards the front of the vehicle. Drake slapped his hands on the pavement, startling the skittish cat right into Jimmy's waiting arms.
"What have we here?" Jimmy asked, his big leathery hands embracing Hennessy, quieting her struggles easily. "Shhh. It's okay."
Drake smiled to see his partner clucking over the traumatized feline like a mother hen.
"Her name is Hennessy, right?" Jimmy asked as the cat tried to burrow inside his lightweight suit jacket.
"Yeah. It's a miracle she made it out alive." Drake reached out a hand to stroke the cat's head, the only part of her still exposed. "Good to see you girl."
"Miracle anyone made it out alive," Jimmy told him. "Arson says it was some kind of incendiary device. If Hart had been upstairs asleep—"
Drake dropped his hand and turned away. He couldn't think of that. Hart asleep in bed when the house caught on fire–he blocked out the image.
"Guess there's nothing more we can do here," he said, noting the firemen stowing their hoses and lighting their cigarettes, a sure sign they'd moved into cleanup mode.
Drake realized he had nowhere to go. His apartment building was a homicide scene, Hart's place gone. For the first time in years he was unsettled, a vagrant in his own town. It was an unsettling feeling, rocking his equilibrium.
"Get in," Jimmy told him. "Denise has the sofa bed made up already."
Trust Jimmy to be three steps ahead of him. Drake hadn't even realized his temporary lack of shelter until just now. He slid into the passenger seat of Jimmy's Intrepid. Jimmy plopped the sodden load of wet cat onto Drake's lap. Hennessy looked up at Drake with one disdainful amber eye then curled up into a ball.
Drake called Ed's home. He and Hart hadn't arrived yet, so he left a message with Ed's wife that Hennessey was safe at Jimmy's house. When he hung up he realized he felt a strange sense of relief he hadn't been able to talk with Hart. She'd lost everything because of him. How the hell would he ever face her again?
He couldn't. Not until they locked this actor away for good.
"What else on Burns?" Drake asked.
Jimmy was silent for a moment, studying the four lanes of empty highway as they sped down 376. "Miller gave it to Webster," he told Drake. Drake guessed Miller wasn't too happy about having anything to do with the case but she was wise not to leave it solely with the Internal Affairs buffoons.
"And?" Drake prompted.
Jimmy shrugged. "Not much to go on except you were one of the last people to see her alive, she was killed above your apartment after what appears to have been consensual sex, and
the murder weapon was your gun."
"Don't hold your punches," Drake muttered. The media would crucify him by morning. Not like his name was unknown to journalists; they had a field day after Pamela's death.
"You asked for it," Jimmy said. "And, just to warn you, you'd better be careful what you say around Denise. She's not too happy with the idea of you getting drunk and messing around with that girl. Even if nothing did happen."
"Is that because she likes Hart or because she's disappointed in me?" Drake asked. Annoying Jimmy was one thing but you didn't mess with Denise. Drake learned that the hard way when he first partnered with Jimmy four years ago.
"A little of both."
Great. It'd be like having his mother looking over his shoulder. Drake thought of how happy Mom and Nellie had been when he left them at the Lake. Was it only last night?
"Shit," Drake cursed, unsettling the cat in his lap as he sat upright.
"What?"
"I've got to call my mom. Was there anything on the news?"
"How the hell should I know? I was stuck at the morgue."
"Right. What'd he have to say?"
"Usual. Wait until all the tests are in and I'll send you my final report," Jimmy did a fair imitation of the medical examiner's tenor. "There was one thing, though. Seems Burns didn't have long to live. Advanced cancer with metastases everywhere: liver, lymph nodes, even her brain. Steward thought it probably started in the ovaries. He said there were signs she already had at least one course of treatment, so it must have been extremely aggressive."
"Jesus, the poor kid was only, what, twenty-six?"
"Twenty-four."
Drake felt bad about the way he'd treated Burns. He'd done his job, even gone above and beyond, but he thought of her as a nut job, not a woman who deserved his respect. One more way he acted like an idiot this week.
"How about time of death?" he asked.
"Based on witnesses and the state of the body, estimated between midnight and six am. Hart talked to a street kid who told her there was a shot sometime after midnight but couldn't narrow it further and we've no confirmation. She also alibied you."