Count to Ten

  Ben cleared his throat. “Do you want me to call for the dog?”

  “I did already. Larramie’s on duty tonight. He should have Buddy here in twenty minutes.” Reed straightened. “Foster, get the victim from the other side, will you?”

  “Yep.” Foster videotaped the scene from several more angles. “What else?”

  Reed had moved to the wall. “Get a shot of this entire wall, then close-ups of all these marks.” He leaned closer with a frown. “What the hell?”

  “Narrow ‘V,’” Ben noted, steadier now. “The fire started down at the baseboard then moved up the wall fast.” He looked over at Reed. “Really fast. Like with a fuse?”

  Reed nodded. “Yeah.” He ran the sniffer across the wall and once again they heard its high-pitched whine. “Accelerant up the wall. A chemical fuse.” Unsettled, he studied the wall. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that before.”

  “He used gas from the stove,” Foster commented, turning the camera toward what was left of the appliances. He leaned closer, capturing the area between the stove and the wall. “The bolt’s been removed. Had to have been deliberate.”

  “I thought so,” Reed murmured, then brought his recorder back to his mouth. “The gas was flowing into the room, rising to the ceiling. The fire was ignited low to the floor, then traveled up this line of accelerant. We’ll take samples here. But what about this?” He stepped back and took in the pockmarks that mottled the width of the wall.

  “Something exploded,” Ben said.

  “You’re right.” Reed ran the sniffer along the wall. Short screeching bursts emerged, but no long whine as before. “It’s like napalm, the way it sticks to the wall.”

  “Look.” Ben was crouching near the door that connected the kitchen to the laundry room. “Plastic pieces.” He looked up, puzzled. “They’re blue.”

  Reed bent down to look. They did look blue. Quickly his eyes took in several more pieces scattered across the floor and a picture formed in his mind. It was a photo in a book. An arson investigation manual, at least fifteen years old. “Plastic eggs.”

  Ben blinked. “Eggs?”

  “I’ve seen this before. I bet if we can get enough pieces, the lab will be able to put them together like a plastic egg, like kids hunt at Easter. The arsonist fills it with accelerant, either solid or a viscous liquid like polyurethane, runs a fuse through a hole in one end. He lights the fuse and the pressure from the blast blows the egg apart, spewing the accelerant all over.”

  Ben looked impressed. “That explains the burn patterns.”

  “It does. It also goes to show if you do this job long enough, you’ll see it all. Foster, get all the pieces and their location on tape, then close-up stills of everything in the room. I’m going to call in for a warrant to cover us on the origin and source samples, too. I don’t want any lawyer -telling us we can use the search samples for the arson, but not for the assault on that poor girl.”

  “Cover your ass,” Foster muttered. “Damn lawyers.”

  “We’ll get the plastic pieces after Larramie and the dog are finished. Maybe there’s a piece big enough for Latent to get a print.”

  “You optimist, you,” Foster said, still muttering.

  “Just take the pictures. Also get pictures of the doors and first-floor windows, especially the locks. I want to know how he got in here.”

  Foster moved his camera away from his face long enough to stare at Reed. “You know if that girl’s a homicide, they’re going to yank this case right out from under you.”

  He’d already thought of that. “I don’t think so. I’ll have to share, but there’s plenty enough arson here for us to keep our hands in the pot. For now, we’re here. We’ve got the ball. So move it into field-goal territory, okay?”

  Foster rolled his eyes. He wasn’t a sports fan. “Fine.”

  “Ben, there are two cars in the garage. The old ladies said the Doughertys had the Buick. Find out who owned the other one. And, Foster, at first light, I want you out there snapping pictures of the ground. With all this mud, he’s bound to have left us something.”

  “Optimist,” Foster muttered once again.

  Sunday, November 26, 2:55 P.M.

  His thoughts had cleared after a good night’s sleep and now he could consider exactly what he had accomplished. And what he had not. He sat with his hands neatly folded on his desk, staring out the window, analyzing the events of the night. This was the time to determine what went well so that he could do those things again. Conversely, he needed to decide what had not gone well and whether to fix or eliminate those things. Or perhaps even add something new. He’d take it point by point. Keeping it in order. It was the best way.

  The first point was the explosion. His mouth curved. That had gone very well, art and science all rolled into one. His little firebomb worked perfectly, the design easy to implement. Not a single moving part. Elegant in its simplicity.

  And very successful. He grimaced a little as he tested his sore knee. Maybe a little too successful, he thought, remembering the force of the blast. It had knocked him off his feet, throwing him to his hands and knees as he’d run down the Doughertys’ front walk. He guessed he’d cut that fuse a little too close. He’d wanted ten seconds to get out of the house and down to the street. Mentally he counted it out. It had been more like seven seconds. He needed ten. Ten was very important.

  The next time, he’d cut the fuse a little longer.

  The first egg he’d put in the kitchen worked beautifully, just like his prototype. The second egg, the one he’d put on the Doughertys’ bed... He’d intended to kill the old man and his wife, then burn them in their own bed. When he’d discovered they weren’t there, the second bomb became symbolic, but ultimately not a viable part of his plan.

  He’d realized as he stood ready to light its fuse that by the time he ran downstairs and lit the fuse for the kitchen egg that the upstairs one would already have blown. That blast might have set off the gas before he was out of the house, trapping him inside. So he’d left it there, hoping it would blow when the fire spread. Judging from the way the fire had burned through the roof of the house, he believed that had happened. But had it not, the police may have found it and learned more than he wanted them to.

  So even though the concept of two bombs was sweet, lighting them simultaneously was impractical, the risk too great. From now on, he’d stick with one. Everything else about the explosion itself had been a textbook success. Everything had gone just as he’d planned. Well, not entirely.

  Which brought him to the second point. The girl. His smile widened to a grin, wicked and... powerful. Just thinking about her made his body tighten.

  When she begged, when she tried to fight, something inside him had snapped and he’d used her. Completely. -Savagely. Until she lay on the floor quivering, unable to say a word. That’s the way it should be. The way they all should be. Quiet. If not voluntarily, then by force. His grin faded. But he’d used her without a condom, which was incredibly stupid. He hadn’t considered it then, he’d been too wrapped up in the moment. Once again, he’d been lucky. The fire would take care of any evidence. At least he’d had the presence of mind to douse her with gasoline before he ran. She’d be destroyed, along with anything of his own he’d left behind when he’d run.

  Which left point three. His escape. He hadn’t been seen running to his own car. Lucky, lucky. Next time he couldn’t count on that kind of luck. He’d have to come up with a better means of escape. One that, even were he spotted, would do the police no good. He smiled. He knew just what to do there.

  He considered his plan. It was good. But, he had to admit, it was the sex that had made the evening complete. He’d killed before. He’d taken sex before. But now, having experienced murder and sex together, he couldn’t imagine one without the other.

  It should come as no surprise, really. It was, he supposed, his one... weakness. And perhaps his greatest strength. Of all the weapons he’d ever wielded, s
ex was the finest. The most basic.

  Of all the ways to put a woman in her place, it was the very best. Young, old... it didn’t really matter. The enjoyment, the release, was in the taking—and knowing they would never go a day without remembering that they were weak. And he was strong.

  His biggest problem was that he’d let them live. It was almost what had gotten him caught before. It was almost what had earned him a punishment far greater than he’d experienced in the laughable juvenile detention system. He’d learned from that, too, as evidenced by Caitlin Burnette. If one planned to rape a woman, make sure she didn’t live to tell the tale.

  But he had to be completely honest. Technically, the night had gone off much better than he’d dared hope. Realistically, he’d failed. He’d missed his target. In the light of day, the fire, even taking Caitlin, paled. This couldn’t be about fire. The fire could only be the tool. This was about payment. Retribution. Old lady Dougherty had escaped her fate. She was out of town. For Thanksgiving. He’d gotten that much from the girl. But she’d come back and when she did, he’d be waiting.

  Until then, he had more to do. Miss Penny Hill was next on his mental list of offenders. She and old lady Dougherty had been thick as thieves. Penny Hill had believed Dougherty’s lies. So did I, in the beginning. In the beginning, Dougherty had promised them safety. His lips twisted. Hope. But in the end she’d turned, accusing them of things they hadn’t done. Her promise of safety was mercilessly broken. She kicked them out on the street and Hill had shipped them away, like cattle. It’s for the best, Hill had said as she’d driven them away, straight into hell on earth. You’ll see. But it hadn’t been for the best.

  She’d lied, just like all the others. He and Shane had been helpless, homeless. Vulnerable. Old lady Dougherty was home-less. Soon enough she’d be helpless. And then dead. Now it was Penny Hill’s turn to become helpless and homeless. And dead. It was only fair. To use her own words, it was for the best. She’d see.

  He checked the clock. He had someplace to be. He didn’t want to be late.

  Chapter Two

  Monday, November 27, 6:45 a.m

  Daddy!”

  The shout, accompanied by the banging on his bedroom door, sent the tie tack in Reed’s hand skittering to the floor and under his dresser. He sighed. “Come in, Beth.”

  The door exploded, admitting both fourteen-year-old Beth and her three-month-old sheepdog, who took a running leap, landing in the middle of Reed’s bed. The dog shook, sending muddy water everywhere.

  “Biggles, no.” Beth yanked on his collar, pulling him across the sheets to the floor where he sat, puppy tongue sticking out just far enough to make him too cute to punish.

  Hands on his hips, Reed stared in dismay at the muddy streaks the puppy had left behind. “I just changed my sheets, Beth. I told you to wipe his paws and dry him off before you brought him back in the house. The backyard is a mud bath.”

  Beth’s lips twitched. “Well, his paws are clean now. I’ll wash the sheets again. But first I need lunch money, Dad. The bus is coming soon.”

  Reed pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Didn’t I just give you lunch money a few days ago?”

  Beth shrugged, her hand out. “You want me to go hungry, or what?”

  He shot her an overly patient look. “I want you to help me find my tie tack. It rolled under the dresser.”

  Beth dropped to her knees and felt under the dresser. “Here it is.” She dropped it in his palm and he handed her a twenty.

  “Try to make it last for at least two weeks, okay?”

  She wrinkled her nose and in that moment looked so much like her mother that his heart squeezed. Beth folded the bill and slid it down into the pocket of jeans that hadn’t seemed that tight before. “Two weeks? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” He looked her up and down. “Your jeans are too tight, Bethie,” he said and she got that look on her face. Damn, he hated that look. It seemed to have appeared about the same time as the pimples and the mood swings. Reed’s sister Lauren had informed him in a dark whisper that his baby was no longer a baby. God. PMS. He wasn’t ready for this. But it didn’t seem to matter. His baby was a teenager. She’d be going off to college any day now.

  His mind flitted to the victim they’d found in the rubble of the Dougherty house. If she was the college house sitter, she wasn’t much older than Beth, and Reed still didn’t know her name. He still hadn’t heard from Joe Dougherty Junior. He had been able to trace the burned-out Chevy in the garage to a Roger Burnette, but when he and Ben had stopped by the Burnette address, no one had been home. He’d try again this morning after he stopped by the morgue and the lab.

  Beth narrowed her eyes, her acidic tone piercing his thoughts. “Are you saying these jeans make me look fat?”

  Reed sucked in his cheek. There was no good answer to this question. “Not even close. You’re not fat. You’re healthy. You’re perfect. You do not need to lose weight.”

  Eyes rolling, her tone became long-suffering. “I’m not going anorexic, Dad.”

  “Good.” He let out the breath he’d been holding. “I’m just saying we need to go shopping for bigger jeans.” He smiled weakly. “You’re growing too fast, baby. Don’t you like the idea of new clothes?” The tie tack rolled in his clumsy fingers, no longer as dexterous as they once had been. “I thought all girls loved shopping.”

  Quickly Beth took over the task, fixing the tie tack and smoothing his tie with a practiced hand. The look he hated disappeared, replaced by a wicked grin that made her dark eyes sparkle. “I love shopping. I bet we could spend six hours in Marshall Field’s alone. Sweaters and jeans and skirts. And shoes! Just think of it.”

  Reed shuddered, the picture abundantly clear. “Now you’re just being mean.”

  She laughed. “Revenge for the fat comment. So you want to go shopping, Daddy?”

  He shuddered again. “Frankly, a root canal without novocaine seems less painful. Can Aunt Lauren take you?”

  “I’ll ask her.” Beth leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the lunch money, Daddy. Gotta go.”

  Reed watched her dart away, the sloppy pup at her heels. The front door slammed as Beth headed out, the sheets on his bed still muddy from the dog she’d begged him to buy for her birthday. He knew if he wanted to sleep on clean sheets tonight, he’d best change them himself. But the smell of coffee tickled his nose. She’d remembered to flip the switch on the coffee machine, so he’d cut her slack on the puppy prints. Despite her sometimes volatile mood swings, she was a good kid.

  Reed would sell his soul to make sure she stayed that way. He glanced over at the picture on his nightstand. Christine serenely stared back as she had for eleven years. -Sitting on the edge of his bed, he picked up the picture and dusted the frame with the cuff of his shirt. Christine would have enjoyed Beth’s coming of age, the shopping trips, the “talk.” He doubted even the “look” would have fazed her. Once he would have damned the world that his wife hadn’t had the chance to find out. Today... he set the picture back on the nightstand so that it once again covered the dust-free strip of wood. After eleven years, the rage had become sad acceptance. What was, was. Shrugging into his suit coat, he shook himself. If he didn’t hit the road soon, traffic would make him late. Coffee, Solliday, then get moving.

  He was pulling out of his garage when his cell phone rang. “Solliday.”

  “Lieutenant Solliday?” The voice was frantic. “This is Joseph Dougherty. I just got back from a charter fishing trip and my dad said you called.”

  Joe Junior at last. He put the car in park and pulled out his notepad. “Mr. Dougherty. I’m sorry to have to contact you this way.”

  There was a heavy sigh. “Then it’s true? My house is gone?”

  “I’m afraid it’s true. Mr. Dougherty, we found a body in the kitchen.”

  There was a beat of silence. “What?”

  Reed wished he could have spoken to the man in perso
n, but his shock sounded sincere. “Yes, sir. The neighbors said you had somebody watching your house.”

  “Y-yes. Her name is Burnette. Caitlin Burnette. She’s supposed to be very responsible.” Panic had taken the man’s voice a little higher. “She’s dead?”

  Reed thought of the charred body and swallowed his sigh. Yes, she’s very dead. “We’re assuming the body we found was your house sitter, but we’ll have to investigate before we’re certain. We’d appreciate you leaving any notification of the family to us.”

  “Of...” He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

  “When will you be back in town, Mr. Dougherty?”

  “We weren’t supposed to come back until Friday, but we’ll try to get home today. When I know our flight times, I’ll call you back.”

  Reed tossed his phone to the passenger seat, only to have it ring again. Caller ID this time was the morgue. “Solliday.”

  “Reed, it’s Sam Barrington.” The new medical examiner. Barrington had taken over when the old ME went out on maternity leave. The old ME had been efficient, astute, and personable. Barrington... well, he was efficient and astute.

  “Hey, Sam. I’m on my way into the office. What do you have?”

  “Victim’s a woman, early twenties. Best I can tell she was five-two, five-three.”

  Sam wasn’t one to call with such basic information. There had to be more. “And?”

  “Well, before I started to cut I did an initial X-ray of the body. I expected to see the skull in fractured fragments.”

  Which was the general way of things. Bodies subjected to that kind of heat... the skulls sometimes just exploded from the pressure. “But you didn’t.”

  “No, because the bullet hole in her skull vented all the pressure.”

  Reed wasn’t surprised. Still, now he had to share. He got the arson, the cops got the body. Too many damn cooks in the kitchen. He winced. So to speak. “Any evidence of smoke inhalation?”