“Adler’s legs were broken like the first two victims,” Sam added. “But she wasn’t cut like the Hill woman. If she had been, she probably wouldn’t have lived long enough to have been rescued. Ledford had only the stab wound and the burns caused by the fire.”
“I think it’s safe to say Roxanne Ledford surprised him,” Jack said. “We found pieces of her violin around where firefighters found her body. I think she hit him with it.”
“After she called 911,” Mia murmured.
“And we can be thankful for that,” Spinnelli pronounced. “If she hadn’t, Adler wouldn’t have lived as long as she did and a lot of other people may have been hurt.”
“Thirty people lived there,” Reed said. “Ledford may have saved their lives.”
“I’m sure that came as a great comfort to Roxanne’s -family,” Mia said harshly.
“You told them?” Westphalen asked gently.
“About two hours ago. They didn’t take it well.”
Neither had Mia, Reed thought.
Murphy squeezed her forearm. “It sucks, kid,” he murmured around his carrot stick.
She chuckled bitterly. “Y’think?”
Reed wished he could touch her too, hold her hand, but he knew that was out of the question. He fixed his eyes on the board. “There was no gas explosion. The apartments only had electric. There was also a difference in the egg fragments.” He pushed a glass jar holding a lump of melted plastic to the table. “I found this a few feet from Brook’s bedroom door. I think the egg came apart before the fuse burned through. It never shattered.”
Spinnelli’s mustache bent down. “Interesting. Theories?”
“Well, if I’d set the device, I would have put it on the mattress itself. It would have caught fire faster and have been closer to Adler’s body. But I don’t think it was there.”
Aidan Reagan was scratching notes on a pad. “Why not?”
“Because if it was on the mattress, she wouldn’t have been alive when Hunter and Mahoney got to the bedroom—she would have looked like Penny Hill and Caitlin Burnette. Also, the burn patterns indicate the fire started on the floor close to the door, so it took a few minutes to spread to the bed.”
“It would explain the severe burns on the second victim—the Ledford woman,” Sam said. “Even though her body had no accelerant, she was closer to the origin.”
“And finally, I found what looked like ammonium nitrate deposited deep in the carpet fibers. Somehow the egg ended up on the floor, with enough force to break it open.”
“She kicked it?” Mia asked and Reed shrugged.
“It’s possible.”
Sam shook his head. “Her legs were broken. It’s hard to believe she kicked it.”
“The doctor said it was hard to believe she was still -muttering after being sedated,” Mia said. “She was in excruciating pain, yet she kept asking for me.”
“She tried to stab him,” Jack commented. “We found a butcher knife on the living room floor with Adler’s fingerprints on it. Unfortunately, no blood, so she didn’t get him.”
“I think Brooke Adler was a lot stronger than I gave her credit for yesterday.” Mia’s smile was bitter. “Again, that came as a great comfort to her parents.”
“Mia.” Westphalen’s mouth bent in sympathy. “You told both families back-to-back?”
“I’m sure it hurt them a hell of a lot more than it hurt me. But, speaking of hell, I’m thinking he said ‘go to hell’ as some kind of symbolic tie to the fire.”
“Makes perfect sense,” Westphalen agreed. “So the people he’s killed have done something that he’s condemned them to hell for doing. What about ‘count to ten’?”
“His fuse,” Reed said. “Penny Hill’s neighbor, Mr. Wright, said that he heard the tires squeal, saw the car driving away and a second later the house blew. Now assuming Wright is... well, right, and assuming Hill’s killer ran as soon as he lit the fuse, he would have had about ten to fifteen seconds to get away. I tried it.”
“But why ‘ten’?” Westphalen mused. “It has to have some significance besides a Clint Eastwood-esque belligerence.”
Mia’s face tensed. “I hope it’s not the number of people he plans to kill.”
There was a half beat of silence. “Well, that’s an uplifting thought,” Jack muttered.
“Let’s have some encouraging news,” Spinnelli said pointedly. “Jack?”
“We ran prints all day and night. Theoretically, all the prints in the art room and the science lab should be accounted for. Everybody at Hope Center has been printed, staff and residents. But one set of prints was unmatchable to any of the prints on record. And although it’s redundant at this point, they don’t belong to Manny. Also, the prints don’t match anything in AFIS, so our guy doesn’t have a record.”
“Someone’s had access to the school without being printed,” Spinnelli mused.
“Maybe.” Mia met Reed’s eyes and he could see her wheels turning. “But Secrest didn’t seem like a slouch. He’s a secretive SOB, but he knows what goes on at that place. I can’t see him letting just anyone stroll through. Bixby had print cards on every teacher and juvenile, past and present. Every print should have been accounted for.”
Reed thought he knew where she was headed. “So Secrest missed somebody or one of the print cards Bixby gave us was wrong. Either through design or oversight.”
Spinnelli’s jaw tightened. “Print everybody at that school. If they balk, haul ’em in.”
Mia’s smile was sharp. “My pleasure.”
“Have you found any connection between Burnette’s and Hill’s files?” Spinnelli asked.
“Um, no.” Her composure slipped for an instant and Reed couldn’t help but think about what she’d been doing instead of reading files. But they were entitled to some time of their own. He wouldn’t feel guilty about it. He hoped she wouldn’t either. She cleared her throat. “We’ll keep looking. Did the news shows give the women’s names?”
“I caught two of the local broadcasts,” Aidan offered. “Both Channel Four and Seven said they were withholding the names of the victims until their families were notified.”
“I saw Channel Nine news,” Westphalen added. “Same thing.”
“And the fire started after press time for all the papers,” she said.
Reed followed her train of thought. “So, we may be able to assume that Bixby and his friends haven’t heard about the murder yet, unless they’re somehow involved.”
She nodded, brows lifted. “I think we’ll go back to Hope Center this morning. I want to see if the Axis of Evil can look us in the eye.”
Reed’s lips curved. “The Axis of Evil? Bixby, Thompson, and Secrest. It works.”
She smiled back, then her mouth was grim again. “And I want to tell Manny that Brooke is dead. Maybe that’ll unsettle him enough to tell us what he’s hiding.”
“Wait until I’ve talked with him,” Westphalen requested. “I’m afraid if you push him any harder, he’ll break and we won’t get anything from him. I’ll be done by lunchtime.”
“All right. But no later. I don’t want him having time to get his story right.”
“What about Adler’s apartment?” Murphy asked. “Any cameras?”
“No,” Reed said. “This was a no-frills place and what they had wasn’t maintained properly. A couple of the units didn’t even have working smoke detectors. We’re going to have to question all the residents the old-fashioned way to see if anybody saw him.”
“Murphy and Aidan, you get the statements,” Spinnelli said. “Anything else?” he asked as everyone stood up. “Then let’s meet back here at five. I want a suspect with a name, Mia.”
She sighed. “One can hope.”
Thursday, November 30, 8:15 A.M.
He had to squint as he scanned the headlines. He was tired. He’d debated calling in sick, but that would have looked somewhat suspicious. Under the circumstances.
But what circumstances they’d bee
n. He’d been on a roll last night. Four. Zapped. Gone. That had to be a record. It was for him anyway. My personal best. He chuckled and flipped to the next page of the Bulletin. They seemed to be the fastest with new stories, so he’d started with their paper. But there wasn’t anything new about him on page one. Just recycled hash from the press conference the day before. He sat a little straighter. He’d rated a press conference. Cool.
He scanned the other news. And stopped at the bottom of page three when he saw two familiar names. Joanna -Carmichael and none other than Detective Mia Mitchell.
Apparently Mitchell had been shot at on Tuesday night. A gunman had fired shots in her neighborhood, at 1342 Sedgewick. Well, that was something you didn’t see every day. A cop’s address printed in the paper. That had to be fate or karma or something. He was becoming a firm believer in fate. Apparently this gunman had some kind of grudge against the good detective, related to another shooting almost three weeks ago. Apparently the gunman was a piss-poor shot and ran away.
He tore the article and meticulously trimmed the edges. Mitchell was a busy lady. Lots of enemies. She’d come too close yesterday. With Brooke Adler dead, she’d have every reason to come closer. If she got shot, they’d just put on more cops. But they’d be looking for this guy. He ran his finger under the name of the gunman. Melvin Getts. If Mitchell happened to die, they’d look even harder for the poor -bastard. It would be distraction and that’s all he really needed now. Just a little distraction to buy a little time.
He shoved the article in his book, along with the others. He could sleep when it was over. Now, he had a loose end to tie up, then a sad face to put on. Poor Brooke was dead. He’d be devastated. And quick to offer his personal assistance to the cops.
It was the least he could do.
Thursday, November 30, 8:35 A.M.
A giant yawn nearly split Mia’s head in two. “I’m tired.”
“Me, too.” Solliday was typing at his computer with a slow methodical rhythm.
He looked crisp and professional and not tired in the least and for a second she allowed herself the luxury of remem-bering what he’d looked like sprawled in her bed after the third bout of the best sex she’d ever had. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t look up. “I think that before we go back to Hope Center, we should have a little background on the actors.” His lips quirked up. “I mean the Axis of Evil.”
“I should have done that already,” she muttered and forced herself out of her chair.
“Well, you didn’t,” he said mildly. “That’s why you have a partner, Mia, so you don’t have to do everything yourself.”
She leaned a hip against his desk and drew in a breath, smelling his aftershave. His face was smooth around the goatee, which had tickled her inner thighs. She let out the breath. “So that’s why I have a partner?” she murmured, loud enough for only his ears.
His fingers paused on the keyboard, then resumed their steady pace. “Mia,” he warned under his breath, through his teeth.
“Sorry. You’re right.” She shook herself and paid attention to the screen. He knew his way around law enforcement databases. She’d never thought of fire marshals using them. She was learning a great deal about fire marshals lately. “What did you find?”
He tapped a few keys and read the screen with interest. “Secrest is an ex-cop.”
“Lots of cops go into private security after they retire. Doesn’t surprise me.”
“No, but this does. He quit and went to work for Bixby four years ago, just two years before he would have retired from CPD.”
“Lost out on a hefty pension,” Mia murmured. “I wonder what happened.”
“Maybe you can talk to some of his old friends and find out.”
“I’ll ask Spinnelli to do it. He can weasel info I can’t. What about Thompson?”
“Our helpful school psychologist,” he muttered. “No record in this database.” He Googled him. “Thompson’s a PhD from Yale.”
Mia frowned. “What’s a Yale boy doing in juvie? The pay’s gotta suck.”
“He’s authored a book. Rehabilitation of Juvenile -Offenders. I checked Manny’s Hope Center file. He’s been in therapy with Thompson for some time.”
She lifted her brows. “I wonder if Dr. Thompson’s planning a sequel.”
“It would explain his temper tantrum when we took Manny in. Can we get into his files?”
“Probably not based on what we’ve got, but we can ask. So what about Bixby?”
He kept his eyes on the screen. “He’s authored a few articles on education.”
“Two of the articles are on using education in rehabilitation,” she noted.
“Again, I wonder why he’s not going for a higher salary.”
“We’ll find out. Check on Atticus Lucas, the art teacher.”
He did. “He’s had exhibits before.” He scanned the page then looked up at her. “Prestigious galleries. Again, I wonder why he’s there.”
“What about Hope? It’ll be a nonprofit, right? Do you know how to check finances?”
The look he shot her was overly patient. “Yes, Mia.”
The look she shot him was dry. “Then see if you can find anything while I check my voice mail. Then we should get going. All the teachers should be there by nine.”
A newspaper landed on her desk. Murphy stood glaring. “What?” she said.
“You’re in the news again, glamour girl. Page three of the Bulletin, bottom right.”
For a moment she wondered if Carmichael had already reported on her wild night with Reed, but dismissed it. Press time was one a.m. at the Bulletin. Reed didn’t leave until almost four. Her eyes dropped down and she felt the blood drain from her face.
It was worse. Way worse. Temper spilled over and she fought the pagan urge to wrap her hands around -Carmichael’s neck. “I want to...” Kill that woman. She bit the words off and looked up at Solliday, whose eyes were worried. -“Carmichael. She found out about Getts shooting at us on Tuesday night. She printed my home address. First -Wheaton, now this. I have no privacy anymore. You know, I really hate reporters.”
“What about Wheaton?” Murphy asked and she sighed.
“She noticed the mystery blonde yesterday. She tried to use it to get Reed to give her confidential information on this case.”
“But you didn’t, Solliday.” Murphy’s fingers drummed a beat on her desk.
Reed flicked him an impatient glance. “Of course I didn’t.” He picked up the paper calmly, but his jaw was clenched and his eyes flashed fury. “She needs to be stopped.”
“She’ll hide behind the First Amendment.” Mia ran her tongue over her teeth. “She’s off my Christmas list, Reed. I don’t care if she did give me DuPree on a platter.”
His eyes still flickered with anger. “That’ll fix her for sure. Mia, you can’t stay at your place. Every scum-sucking toad in town will be hanging out on your doorstep.”
She grinned. “Scum-sucking toad? I think I’m starting to rub off on you, Solliday.”
“I’m serious, Mia. You have to find a new apartment.”
“He’s right, Mia,” Murphy added. “It’s like she painted a bull’s-eye on your ass.”
“I’m not moving and I’m not talking about this right now. I’m going to listen to my voice mail then do my fucking job.” She grabbed her phone, ignoring the two glowering men. Then frowned. “I got a message from Dr. Thompson last night.”
“Which one of the Axis of Evil is he again?” Murphy asked, still mad at her.
“The school psychologist. He said he needed to see us. That it was urgent.”
“I don’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth,” Reed gritted.
“Me either. But let’s go find out what he wants.”
Thursday, November 30, 9:15 A.M.
“Solliday and Mitchell here to see Dr. Bixby and -Dr. Thompson,” Reed said.
Marcy’s mouth tightened. “I’ll call Dr. Bixby.”
Secrest was with Bixby, but Thompson was not. Neither knew about Brooke Adler’s death, Reed decided. Or if they did, they were damn good at hiding it.
“Can I help you?” Bixby asked formally.
“We asked for Dr. Thompson as well,” Mia told him. “We’d like to speak to him.”
Bixby frowned. “You can’t. He’s not here.”
Reed and Mia exchanged a glance. “Not here?” Reed asked. “Then where is he?”
“We don’t know. He’s usually at his desk by eight, but he hasn’t come in yet.”
Reed lifted a brow. “Does he normally just not show up?”
Bixby looked irritated. “No, he always calls.”
“Did anybody call his house?” Mia asked.
Secrest nodded once. “I did. Nobody answered. Why do you need to see him?”
“He called me. I thought it might have something to do with Brooke Adler’s murder.”
For a moment, neither man moved. Then Secrest’s jaw cocked to one side and Bixby’s face drained of color. Behind him, Reed heard Marcy gasp.
“When?” Secrest demanded. “How?”
“Early this morning,” Reed said. “She died of injuries sustained in a fire.”
Bixby looked down, still dazed. “I can’t believe this.”
Mia lifted her chin. “I can. I was there when she died.”
“Did she say anything before she died?”
Mia smiled darkly. “She said a great many things, Dr. Bixby. For the record, where were you this morning between three and four?”
Bixby blustered. “I can’t possibly be a suspect.”
Secrest sighed. “Just answer her question, Bix.”
Bixby narrowed his eyes. “At home. Asleep. With my wife. She’ll confirm it.”
“I’m sure she will,” Mia said blandly. “And Mr. Secrest? Same question.”
“At home. Asleep. With my wife,” he answered with the barest hint of sarcasm.
“She’ll confirm it.” Amused, Mia smiled. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
Reed nearly smiled. She was taunting the men and enjoying it. “We’ll need to talk to your staff and see their personnel files. If you could prepare a room for us to use?”