Dead Burn

by Jennifer Chase

Emily steadied her annoyance, partly due to what happened between them, but mostly because she was edgy and suffered from the extreme lack of any restful sleep. Slowly, and with the nicest tone she could muster, she asked. “Do you think that the cops have already been here?”

  “Are you kidding?” He smirked.

  Emily stared at him.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. No, I don’t think that the cops have been here.” Jordan sighed. He placed his hands on the steering wheel and pushed his back firmly against the leather seat. “They just found the P.I.’s torched body yesterday and their hands are full with the whole arson thing.”

  The sun scattered the morning rays through the dense trees. The bright beams reflected into the front seat of Jordan’s car. Emily shaded her eyes with her right hand. She tried to ignore Jordan’s demeanor. He was usually amped up and ready for anything, but now he looked like someone had punched him in the stomach and kicked dirt in his face.

  “It’s my turn.” Emily readied herself. She made sure that her Beretta was loaded and tucked in her ankle holster – just in case.

  “Wait.”

  Emily met Jordan’s gaze. A twinge of guilt invaded her mind.

  “I mean… Rick will be pissed off if I don’t do the recon this time.”

  “I’ve been doing this a lot longer than the two of you combined.” Emily hated that she sounded insensitive, but it had to be said. She wasn’t in the mood for any discussion about it. “I think I can handle this…” She fitted the small headset to her right ear and adjusted the microphone. “Don’t worry, I’ll be in contact with you every step of the way.”

  Jordan’s eyes looked pained as he studied her face. He copied Emily’s example. The headset was in place as he double-checked his cell phone too.

  Jordan made a silly salute.

  “Wish me luck.” Emily smiled and exited the car not waiting for a reply.

  She wasted no time and hurried toward Zig Rodriguez’s house. The investigator didn’t have a private office; he only borrowed the use of an extra cubicle at the courthouse. By the process of elimination, Emily knew that the cases he worked on were at his residence. It was quiet and on his own turf.

  The distinct fragrance of honeysuckle caught hold of her senses, sweet, pleasant, and a reminder of the beautiful things in the world. The wild vine had taken over the side yard, moved along the fence, and up the side of the house. As lovely as the scent was, Emily couldn’t help but think about the burnt smell of the private investigator’s car and what a horrible way to die.

  The real question tormented her.

  Was the P.I. killed as a part of the serial killer’s plan, or was he killed because of something he uncovered?

  Emily walked around to the back yard. It was completely dirt, no patio or deck, and the fog and drizzle made it soggy and uneven beneath her shoes. Pieces of mud adhered to her boots. She lightly stomped her strides to loosen it.

  The back door of the cottage looked more like a closet door than the back entrance. She tried to turn the nob, but found it locked. Scanning around the immediate area, a ceramic snail sat alone with a goofy cartoon smile on its face. It was the only thing clean from dirt in the yard. Swiftly picking up the caricature, a house key tucked up inside the tight crevice dropped to the ground.

  Within seconds, Emily stepped into the cottage.

  “Has the eagle landed?” A clear voice in Emily’s ear disguised with a British accent asked her.

  Emily took a moment and quickly inventoried the cottage. “I’m inside.”

  “It’s all clear out here. Just a black cat jetting across the street. Is that a bad omen?”

  “Not from where I’m standing.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Give me some silence while I look around because I can’t concentrate with you in my head.”

  With a chuckle, Jordan said. “How do you really know that it’s not all in your head? Maybe you have all kinds of different voices resonating in your head, and none of us really exist.”

  “I wouldn’t be so lucky…”

  Emily heard Jordan exhale air that sounded more like a windstorm whipping around in her ear. She ignored the remark and focused on her search.

  The house seemed like a carbon copy of someone living in a motel too long, or a dorm room after a party. Due to the small size of the dwelling, clutter dominated most of the living areas. Beer bottles sat on every available surface, dishes stacked in the sink, clothes draped over the backs of chairs, and the thrift store furniture lent to the image of a divorced man.

  Emily cautiously weaved around the furniture, sometimes in extreme tight areas. She hoped that she didn’t track mud inside.

  On the other side of the room, a corner computer desk appeared from the mess, neat, orderly, and everything had its own place. A drastic contrast compared to the rest of the cottage. To her dismay, she could not locate a computer, high-tech tablet, or any type of an electronic device.

  On two of the walls were numerous framed photographs, some of Rodriguez in a police uniform, faded newspaper articles about a large drug bust, and various vintage family photos. She got the impression that there was a sadness, or feeling of homesick by the abundance of family generations displayed.

  Emily knew that Rodriquez was a police officer for twenty-two years, then held down several security positions until he began working for the district attorney’s office. By the appearance of the home, Emily surmised that he was divorced and most likely had children he rarely saw. The background information she viewed earlier from the computer didn’t say one way or another, but he seemed to take pride in his work and enjoyed the challenges by the appearance of his work area.

  To the left of the desk, a jumbled display of knick-knacks, but not the usual kinds, sat facing outward. These items were idols, creepy looking and carved out of various types of wood. Emily shuddered. She kept searching.

  Her mind wandered back to the arsonist. She wondered what he had planned for the next victim. There was a brilliant quality to the killer, but she knew that the arsonist wasn’t just beginning his kills. There were many more victims in the plan.

  Flipping through files and steno pads, nothing appeared out of the ordinary with the private investigator. Background checks on witnesses and suspects from a variety of cases ranged from fraud to murder. Rodriquez conducted his business in an old school way. He wrote on paper, all written out long hand with a surprisingly beautiful script of penmanship.

  A bang hit the window. Emily jumped. She immediately turned and saw a stunned bird flapping in the backyard. Imagination was the worst enemy when you were in covert mode. She shook off the nerves and continued her search, cautious not to touch anything that would leave her fingerprints behind.

  Glancing back at the strange carvings in the corner with oversized heads and bulging, beady eyes, she shivered. Her fingertips chilled to an icy fervor as she sorted small pieces of paper with numerous phone numbers and names.

  Nothing jumped out at her.

  “It’s been twelve minutes. Do you know where your sneaky detectives are?”

  “Shut up Jordan…” Emily rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop a smile. She was glad that he couldn’t see her face.

  “Find anything?”

  “Not really, but I found something that you might like to add to your apartment decor.”

  Emily snapped a photo of the idols from her cell phone and sent it to Jordan.

  She continued to sift through paperwork looking for something that would give her a clue or an answer, or at least another lead to chase down.

  There had to be something in Rodriquez’s house.

  “Ewwww… nice hobby dude.” Jordan’s voice competed with the static that roved in and out of range.

  “I just thought of you.” She continued to focus on the files, moving paper to her right once she viewed it. To the far left side of the desk were fancy colored brochures of ski resorts, vacation homes, and security systems.

  The items intrigu
ed her.

  The phone rang inside the house.

  Emily stopped. Her headset gave a weird crackle and she lost the connection with Jordan. In a whisper, she spoke. “Jordan? You still there?”

  Nothing.

  The landline phone rang in a dull tone.

  Ring... Ring... Ring...

  No answering machine picked up, so it continued to ring, seven, eight, nine times…

  * * * * *

  “Em? Hello? Hell-OOO? Those freaky wooden things didn’t come to life… hello?”

  Jordan sighed. He pulled the headset off. “Technology sucks.”

  He retrieved his cell phone from atop the dash and looked at the photo from inside the cottage again of the demonic faces. “Geez.” Scrolling through several saved photos on the cell phone memory screen, he stopped on a photo of Emily smiling directly at the camera. Jordan admired it for a moment.

  He glanced at his watch and gave Emily five more minutes before he went in after her. They had spent too long parked in the neighborhood. Someone might notice Jordan’s car and jot down the license plate number.

  Jordan stared out his driver’s window and let his mind wander. His thoughts came back to Emily’s face in the abandoned restaurant and the way the light cast across her face and hair. Her intenseness and intelligence captivated him. He loved to watch her eyes light up when she used her deductive reasoning skills and pieced together the clues that the cops could not solve. The difficult challenges drove her, which was one of her most attractive qualities.

  The passenger door opened.

  “It’s about time. I was going to…” Jordan was about to go into a long dissertation about the importance of safety.

  Red got in and shut the car door.

  “What the…” Jordan was shocked to see the assassin in the seat next to him dressed entirely in black. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.

  Jordan stammered and then asked, “How did you find me?”

  “Easy.”

  “What do you want?” Jordan tried not to sound frightened, but he knew it wasn’t good that the hit man materialized out of thin air. Even worse, he wanted something from Jordan. That alarmed him in so many ways.

  “Drive.”

  “What?”

  Red grabbed the cell phone from Jordan and slipped it into his breast pocket. “Drive. I’ll tell you where I want you to go when we get moving.”

  “I can’t leave Emily here. I need to at least tell her that I’m leaving.”

  “She’ll be fine, at least for now.” Red looked straight ahead and didn’t bother to use the seatbelt to strap himself in for the ride.

  “What do you mean for now?”

  Red turned his penetrating gaze and stared directly at Jordan. “You think that she will stay safe for long after she has been targeted?”

  “But… I thought you said…”

  Abruptly, the assassin answered. “You thought wrong.”

  “You said that she was safe and that you were taking care of it.” Jordan let his insecurities take hold and his voice hit a higher octave.

  “I bought her time that’s all.”

  “Time?”

  “I don’t think you completely understand. Once she has been targeted, there’s nothing changing Bishop’s mind – ever. Now he wants her dead because she escaped.” He paused and then said. “Time’s up.”

  Jordan tried not to gasp in alarm. A million scenarios jumbled through his mind with assassin commandos coming after Emily by the hundreds. He thought that once they had escaped, and that Emily and Rick had moved, everything would go back to as it was before. He shook his head. Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

  “Drive.” Red ordered.

  “So now you’re kidnapping me?”

  “No. Drive.”

  Jordan turned over the engine and his high-performance German sedan hummed. “This is where you cash in on that favor from me, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Jordan eased the car away from the curb. “Well at least I don’t have to ride in the trunk this time.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Tuesday 0930 Hours

  The air in the corridor leading to the record’s division made Detective Duncan’s sinuses congest with extreme pressure, resulting in a nagging headache. He had walked more in the last couple of days than in an entire month. Many of the staff members at the police department were sick with colds and flus; the virus was probably already invading his system, he thought sourly to himself.

  The detective turned the corner and entered a large room where several open work cubicles occupied the records clerks. Everything in the room etched a sickening beige color. The exception was the personal items on each desk, containing photos of kids and dogs, small figurines, and occasionally fresh flowers, which only marginally brightened the workspaces.

  Phones rang at several desks transferred by clerical operators from the main incoming lines.

  A couple of women hurried into adjacent rooms carrying background information for police detectives and patrol deputies.

  The ache in Duncan’s knees and ankles screamed at the excess weight he hauled around, but he wasn’t going to let it slow him down now. He could feel the squeeze as time ticked away. After the case closed and a suspect was in custody, he would take some of his vacation time and make plans to put in his retirement papers. The thought reenergized him, pushing him to move faster.

  He had received a text message from Jenny. She was the record’s division supervisor and a good friend. Duncan trusted the impeccable work during her fifteen years of service. She undoubtedly understood law enforcement and investigations. Even with all the difficulties and personnel cutbacks, she focused, and dug in to find information that detectives like Duncan requested.

  The detective smiled, raised his hand in a friendly gesture at a couple of the clerks, and walked to a small room where a blonde woman sat behind a desk. The woman was thin and pale, but her intense green eyes radiated behind her glasses, which moved around the computer screen in front of her.

  “Hey Jenny, what do you have?” Duncan asked with a winded strain to his voice.

  She looked up over her glasses and smiled. Her sparkly eyes danced “Detective I didn’t expect to see you until the end of the day or tomorrow morning.”

  “They didn’t need me anymore at the arson site… besides, I wanted to visit you instead.” He smiled. For a moment, he thought Jenny blushed.

  “Grab that chair.” She motioned for him to pull up a chair that sat up against the wall.

  “Wow, I have to sit down for this?”

  “You bet. You need to see the progression of what I found. You can be the judge.” She cleared some manila file folders and various color-coded paperwork from her desk. She piled them on a shelf behind her.

  It was a tight fit, but the detective managed to squeeze into the small space. A faint smell of jasmine surrounded Jenny and it was a nice distraction from the horror of crime scenes. He admired her simple beauty that most would miss until they had a second look. Even though she was in her late-forties, she had a way about her that was youthful and fun.

  “Okay, lay it on me.” The detective settled in after he put on his reading glasses.

  “You know how I love puzzles and mind teasers, right?”

  “Yep.”

  Jenny split the computer screen into several window sections. “Here’s the photo of the black box and a partial identification number MRE… and here’s a photo of the steel security door and the manufacturer numbers that begin with STE and INT.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Hold your horses, I’m not done yet.” She adjusted her glasses and clicked the mouse several times. “I did a little digging on the Internet and found that there are only two companies that specialize in this type of door. They are experts in the mechanisms and installations. Other companies can order this door, but they don’t have the same knowledge and experience.” She shifted in her s
eat and inadvertently bumped Duncan’s arm. “A small mom and pop company started out twenty something years ago, Robertson & Sons, and now the company is called AA Armed Security, Inc. DBA Robertson & Sons.”

  Jenny opened the window of the security website. Professionally organized, top-notch photos with expertly written descriptions contributed to the credibility of the company.

  “I shop catalogues, not online, but with physical catalogues sent to my house.” She gestured to the small stack of mailers behind her. “There’s one thing that I have noticed when I’m calling in my order. The items generally begin with ITM or something that coincides with a specific type of collection or season.”

  Duncan followed her breadcrumbs of logic because he knew that Jenny was one of the sharpest people working at the sheriff’s office. He let her continue and didn’t interrupt.

  “Every time a specific security item was referred to with a STE, the coinciding item on the website had this image.” Jenny waved the mouse cursor over the item number and a symbol appeared that looked like a brand with a swirled “S” in it. “I remembered that case from ten years ago where the rapist wrote those letters to the D.A.’s office and always signed with that peculiar symbol.”

  Duncan followed her logic. “You know Jenny, it’s a long shot that the killer is the copyrighter.”

  “Okay. Then check this out.” Jenny opened a pdf file of the security company’s catalogue; every item that designated a STE had the same symbol hidden in the text.

  The detective’s mind spun in several directions. His thoughts were of obsessive-compulsive personalities. He had encountered these types in past investigations. They were meticulous in how they committed their crimes. The arsonist reeked of this type of personality.

  The high-tech security company didn’t mean anything definite, but it was a lead and another way to take the investigation. A rumble in his stomach made him think about eating, but food would have to wait a little longer.

  “We need to get a list of people who are technical writers, copyrighters, or anyone who worked on the website and catalogue for this company.”