Far Gone

by Laura Griffin

  “Okay, sold.” She gave a crisp nod.

  “Sold?”

  “You’re closer to the case than anybody. If you think there’s something there, that’s good enough for me.” She smiled. “I’ll quit complaining about wasting my weekend.”

  Torres didn’t know what to say. She glanced at her watch, and he braced himself for an excuse.

  “It’s late,” she said on cue. “I should get home.” She pulled some money from her purse, but he caught her hand.

  “I’ll get it.”

  “No, let me,” she insisted. “I invited you.”

  He eyed her curiously as she scooted out of the booth, beating a retreat for some reason.

  “Thanks for sharing.” She stood and smiled down at him. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  ♦

  It was nearly midnight when Carmen pulled into her driveway. She collected her purse and a few files off the front seat and remembered to check her mirror before getting out of the car.

  The street looked empty. No detectives or FBI agents camped out on the curb.

  She mounted the steps to her front porch, averting her eyes from the empty flowerpots on either side of her door. Her mother would be horrified. It was April, and she hadn’t planted a thing. She hadn’t even set foot in her backyard in more than a week.

  Carmen let herself in and dumped her purse and files on the table. She glanced at the living room, where Bella was sprawled on the couch watching South Park.

  “How’d it go?” Carmen kicked off the heels that had been torturing her for hours.

  “Good.” Bella sat up and rubbed her eyes. “He went right down.”

  “How’d he eat?”

  “Pretty well.” She stood and picked up the hoodie draped across the sofa arm. “He had about six ounces at dinner. Another four at ten o’clock. Then he was out again. We did a walk earlier, so I think the fresh air wore him out.”

  Carmen felt her shoulders loosening. She smiled. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

  Bella picked up her keys. “No problem. See you tomorrow.”

  She saw Bella out and then went into the kitchen. The remains of a frozen pizza sat on a metal baking sheet tucked beneath plastic wrap. Carmen poured a glass of wine. She’d already had two tonight, but that was over the course of six long hours. She never really drank or ate at fund-raising dinners—just enough to appear social.

  She picked up the merlot and savored a long sip. She went into the living room, switched off the TV, and padded barefoot into the bathroom, where she set her wine on the counter. Then she tiptoed to the end of the hall to peek in on Lukas.

  He was on his tummy, fast asleep, with his satin blankie bunched up against his face. Carmen resettled him on his back. She spread the blanket over him and touched her hand to his downy hair. She stroked his cheek. Velvet soft. She’d had no idea what soft was until she touched her baby’s skin for the first time.

  Carmen leaned over the crib. She stared down at her son and felt the familiar swell of emotion in her chest. From the first day, she’d been astonished by the utter love. She’d once been in love with her ex-husband, but that paled in comparison with this. This love was intense and fearsome, and she’d had no idea how much it would change her life.

  His little lips moved—just slightly—like he was sucking a bottle. She wanted to scoop him up and squeeze him and smell his hair, but he was sleeping soundly, and he might be up later anyway. Instead, she wound up the Winnie the Pooh on the rocking chair and listened to the first bars of music as she eased shut the door.

  Her cell phone was chiming from her purse across the house. She checked the caller ID. Ryan again. She plugged the phone into the charger on the kitchen counter. Then back into the bathroom for another sip of wine. She hung her robe on the hook beside the claw-footed tub and turned the water to scalding. A splash of bubble bath. Then time for the rounds.

  She peered through the peephole and surveyed her quiet street as she flipped the bolt. Then she turned off the lamps, locked the back door, and switched on the floodlights that illuminated her driveway.

  She returned to the bathroom, unbuttoning the tiny pearl buttons on her blouse as she went. Sinking into the fragrant water, she immediately felt her muscles relax. Sunday, midnight, and she was just now getting a chance to unwind from the week. In just six hours, she’d be up to do it all over again.

  She hated nights like these. She hated smiling and chitchatting and making witty conversation with wealthy strangers when all she really wanted to do was go home and play with Lukas. When was the last time she’d had a full, uninterrupted weekend with him?

  Carmen sipped her wine and sank deeper into the lavender-scented foam. She rested her arms on the sides of the tub and tipped her head back.

  Something smelled strange. An odor. She opened her eyes. Gas.

  She stood up and grabbed her robe. Bubbles streamed down her arms and legs as she stepped onto the bath mat and wrapped herself in terrycloth. Had Bella forgotten the oven? She hurried down the hall and into the darkened kitchen. The oven was off. She glanced at the stove. A faint hissing noise—

  Creak.

  She whirled around. A shadow loomed in the corner.

  Lukas.

  She lunged for the hall, but the man grabbed her arm and slammed her against the doorframe. Hands clamped around her neck and hurled her to the floor. Pain seared her scalp as he yanked her head back by the hair.

  She bucked and kicked. She threw elbows and flailed under him, but he was heavy and strong, and he had her pinned against the wooden planks.

  Lukas.

  She reached back, clawing for the man’s face, his eyes. Soft flesh. A grunt of pain, and his weight shifted. She bucked him off and scrambled to her feet, but he caught her ankle. She crashed to the floor, hitting her chin.

  Stars swam before her eyes. The weight smashed down on her. Hands closed around her neck from behind.

  Oh God, oh God. What does he want?

  She could roll over. She could let him rape her and bite her tongue and not make a sound and pray Lukas would stay fast asleep.

  Gas.

  Panic set in as the odor filled her nose. She had to get down the hall to Lukas. She had to get him out. She bucked again, clawed at the floor.

  The grip on her neck tightened. Her chin was pressed against the wood. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She tried to scream, but she couldn’t move her head, her mouth, and the only sound was a muffled wail.

  The hand tightened again. One hand. Where was the other? His weight shifted, and her heart pounded wildly as she struggled to turn her head to see what he was doing.

  A dark arm arced up. A flash of metal.

  A raw sound tore from her throat, but it was too late.

  chapter fourteen

  ANDREA WOKE UP WIRED. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to pinpoint the reason for her mood. She rolled onto her stomach, pulled the pillow over her head, and squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe she could sleep it off.

  Yeah, right.

  Nick Mays flashed into her mind for the first time in a week. She thought of that lopsided smile he’d used when he’d been trying to get her to sleep with him. It was a nice memory, but her brain quickly jumped to the more recent memory of Nick standing in the sleet outside the restaurant that night. She remembered his look of bewildered pity as he’d watched from across the parking lot while she gave the first of countless statements.

  Remembering made her stomach hurt. Andrea despised pity, always had. And in spite of the concerned messages he’d left on her voice mail, she had no intention of ever calling him again, much less sleeping with him.

  She flipped onto her back and gazed up at her ceiling. She thought of Jon North. She thought of him in his dark suit and silk tie, with his badge clipped to his belt. She thought of him at his house in Maverick, all sweaty and grimy, with the two-day beard. She remembered him pitching his boots across the room and glaring at her. She
liked that version of him. That Jon North could probably get her off. The suit-and-tie version tended to get on her nerves.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. She needed to get a life.

  There was always running. A good ten miles would probably do the trick, would leave her feeling energized and in control. Mostly. At the very least, it would put some of this humming energy to good use. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Unfortunately, she didn’t have time for a run or anything else this morning.

  She dragged herself out of bed and took a lukewarm shower. She pulled a brush through her hair and decided to leave it down instead of pulling it into a ponytail. She was, after all, on leave. Her gaze went to her badge sitting on the dresser. It was starting to collect dust.

  Tears burned her eyes. She’d been a good cop. It had surprised her how quickly she’d taken to it. After the hell of the police academy ended, she’d sailed right into her job with so much energy and enthusiasm. It had felt like a perfect fit.

  She’d liked the work. She’d liked the other cops. She’d even liked the ribbing. Criticism was the lifeblood of a squad, and she’d never taken it personally. It had given her a sense of belonging.

  More than anything, she’d liked showing up on a call and taking charge of a situation. It was something she still liked, even as a detective. When she arrived at a scene, her presence gave people reassurance. Hope. They trusted her to help them, and she took that trust seriously. It made her who she was. It mattered. Her job mattered, and the pang of missing it was overshadowed only by the excruciating prospect of never getting it back again.

  Andrea grabbed her leather jacket. She tucked the Kimber into the holster at her back and headed out the door.

  It was a crisp blue day, and she left the windows down as she drove across the bridge to North Lamar Street. The restaurant parking lot was busy, and she had to circle the block twice to find a space.

  City Diner was an Austin landmark. Open around the clock, it attracted the postparty crowd when the bars closed on Sixth Street. After sunrise, it was a magnet for foodies and health nuts. Sunday was definitely for the fitness patrons, many in biker shorts and yellow spandex shirts. There were runners, too, and even a few tennis players. Andrea preferred the runners, because most had the courtesy to change out of sodden T-shirts before crowding into the place for a meal.

  She stepped into the restaurant and immediately spotted Alex at the bar. There was an empty stool beside her. Andrea squeezed through the throng of people and claimed the seat.

  “Nathan’s sorry he can’t make it,” Alex said. “He got a call-out.”

  She felt a twinge of jealousy, even though she typically dreaded getting called out of bed on a Sunday morning.

  “You order yet?” Andrea asked.

  “Just sat down.”

  Andrea scanned the menu. The restaurant’s name was really a misnomer. Yes, it was a diner in that it served meat loaf, sandwiches, and mac-’n’-cheese. But given their location directly across from the Whole Foods headquarters, they put a gourmet spin on everything. The grilled cheese sandwich was stacked with Gruyère. The deviled eggs came with a side of organic, locally grown arugula. The waffles were made with Madagascar vanilla and served with Grade A Vermont syrup, which wasn’t nearly as tasty as the Log Cabin that Dee always plunked on the breakfast table.

  “You look stressed,” Alex said.

  She glanced up. “Just tired.”

  “Rough night?”

  “Rough month.”

  The waitress stopped by, and although the mimosas sounded tempting, Andrea ordered coffee. Alex asked for a virgin Bloody Mary.

  Andrea narrowed her gaze. “Are you pregnant?”

  “What? No!”

  She searched her face for any sign that she was lying. She didn’t see anything but decided to ask Nathan. If he broke into a dopey grin, she’d know the truth.

  “Nathan’s really sorry he couldn’t make it,” Alex said, deftly changing the subject. “He wanted a chance to talk to you. You know, he’s worried about you.”

  Andrea looked at the TV above the bar. “I’m fine.”

  “Really?”

  She forced herself to make eye contact. “Really.” She cleared her throat. “So any word yet? On that stuff Ben was checking for me?”

  “Still working on it.”

  “Has he come up with anything?”

  “You never know with Ben.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s very mysterious. Doesn’t like to be pestered for updates while he’s researching.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She glanced at the TV again, where a local newscaster was standing in a street beside a red Suburban. It was the pushy blonde who had staked out Andrea’s apartment for two days, hoping to get an interview about the shooting. Holly Something-or-Other.

  “I’m concerned about you, too.”

  Her gaze snapped to Alex. “Don’t be.”

  “You know, I was with Nathan when he went through this. I know it’s tough.”

  Her attention drifted to the TV again, and she noticed the headline crawling along the bottom of the screen: GAS EXPLOSION 2200 BLOCK OF CHERRY KNOLL. CAUSE STILL UNDER INVESTIGATION.

  Her stomach dropped.

  “Andrea?”

  “Nathan—you said he’s on a call. Was it a gas explosion?”

  Alex darted a confused glance at the television. “I think it was a house fire. Why?”

  “So there were fatalities?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Andrea looked at the TV. The camera panned to the charred remains of a house. Beside the burned structure was a shiny black Jaguar.

  She jumped up from her stool.

  “Andrea, what is it?”

  “Sorry.” She snatched up her purse. “I have to go.”

  ♦

  The street had been blocked off with barricades. Andrea cut between them and skirted the black-and-white parked in the exact spot where Jon had been yesterday. She ignored the curious look from a patrol officer she vaguely recognized and found Nathan in the driveway with the fire chief. He frowned when he spotted her.

  Andrea surveyed the property. A white crime-scene van was parked directly in front of the house—or what was left of it. The entire front of the structure was a blackened pile of debris. What remained of the back of the home was a smoldering mess.

  Nathan got free from the fire chief and made a beeline toward her.

  “Is Alex okay?”

  Intense concern. Andrea would bet money that girl was pregnant.

  “She’s fine,” she told him. “I need to talk to you.”

  He darted a look over her shoulder, and his frown deepened. Andrea turned to see a second news van pulling up to the barricade. The local media had obviously discovered there was more to this incident than they’d first reported.

  “Here we go,” Nathan muttered. He took Andrea’s arm and steered her farther up the driveway, where the red Suburban would shield them from view.

  Andrea caught a glimpse of the backyard. A blue plastic swing dangled from a tree limb.

  Jesus God.

  “Why are you here, Andrea?”

  She looked at Nathan. She swallowed the bile in the back of her throat. “What happened here?”

  He gave her a long, hard look. Maybe he figured she was missing the job, wanted to put her skills to use. “Gas explosion, just after midnight. Victim’s thought to be Carmen Pena, but that hasn’t been confirmed. Her child was there, too. The neighbor’s a trauma surgeon. He rushed into the house and rescued the kid, got third-degree burns all over his arms and feet. Child’s in ICU.”

  Andrea felt dizzy. She fought the urge to bend over and throw up.

  “Why’s homicide here?” she managed.

  “The fire chief has questions,” he said. “His guys were here all night, working the scene. He doesn’t like this for an accident.”

  Andrea looked at the house. The bedroom wing had been less affected than the kitchen, and it was stil
l possible to discern a bathroom with the sink standing upright amid the singed walls. “Where’s the point of origin?” she asked.

  “In the kitchen, near the gas stove.” He glanced at the debris.

  “So someone tampered with it?”

  “Probably.” He looked at her, and she knew she was missing something. “One of the fire investigators found shards of metal and pieces of a timing device. Looks like possibly a pipe bomb, but that’s totally unconfirmed.”

  “Show me.”

  Nathan watched her, clearly debating with himself. He led her to a white crime-scene van with its back doors standing open.

  “Hey, you got that pipe debris?” he asked one of the CSIs.

  The guy glanced at Andrea, then reached into the van and pulled out a flat metal box with a see-through lid. It looked like an airtight container, the preferred method of transporting fire-scene evidence in order to keep accelerants from evaporating.

  “Don’t shuffle anything around,” the guy told Nathan, then ducked between them and returned to what was left of the house.

  The box was divided into numbered sections containing mangled pieces of what had once been a metal pipe. Other sections contained misshapen bolts and ball bearings, some coated with blood.

  She glanced at Nathan. “Mind if I take a picture?”

  He gave her a stony look. Then he unlatched the lid and turned the box to face her so she could snap a few shots with her phone camera. When she finished, he returned the box to its place, slammed the van doors shut, and stepped onto the water-saturated lawn.

  “Where’s the victim?” Andrea asked.

  “Medical examiner’s office. I called over there this morning. He said he’s going to have to bring in a forensic anthropologist to get a positive ID.”

  Her gaze went to the swing again.

  “Want to tell me why the sudden interest in my case?”

  She looked at Nathan. And then she looked behind him, where a CSI in a white Tyvek suit was crouched beside the Jaguar, dusting the door for prints. All the windows were shattered, and shards of glass surrounded the car like ice chips.