Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday, September 21, 9:25 a.m.
David pulled his pickup truck in front of a big sign that read K-9 TRAINING, and below it hung a much smaller sign in a child’s script that read… AND DOGGY DAY CARE.
“Come,” he said and Olivia’s German shepard jumped from his truck and ran to the door. Assuming the dog knew the way, David followed. He knocked, but there was no answer. The door was unlocked, so he went in, setting off a beep and a flashing light overhead.
“Hello?” he called. He could hear dogs barking from somewhere behind the wall. There was a reception counter, but no receptionist. Then he heard it—a small moan of pain. He looked down at Mojo, saw the dog’s ears had pricked up. He’d heard it, too.
David saw a woman, facedown on the desk, red hair hanging down her back, her arms dangling uselessly at her sides. “Ma’am?” he said but she didn’t respond. He took her arm to check her pulse, then jumped back when she leapt to her feet, fists clenched.
“Who are you?” she demanded and once he’d recovered his composure, he immediately recognized her from one of the pictures on Olivia’s mantel.
“David Hunter,” he said. “You’re Brie, Olivia’s friend.”
She narrowed dark brown eyes. “You’re the jerk.”
David rolled his eyes. “Not anymore,” he said.
“Wait.” She stumbled to her desk, finding what looked like two hearing aids. Popping one behind each ear, she squinted at his face. “Did you say ‘not anymore’?”
She was hearing impaired, he realized, and hadn’t heard him come in. “I did. See, she even trusted me with him.” He patted the dog’s head, and Mojo licked his hand.
“You must be a sweet talker to have earned a second chance after what you did.”
Embarrassed, his cheeks heated. “I heard someone moaning.”
She sank into her chair. “That would have been me. Dying. Don’t talk so loud.”
He smiled. “You must have been in on the major mojitos last night.”
She put her face back down on the desk. “Don’t say that word ever again.”
“I might be able to help,” he said.
Blearily she looked up at him. “You have a gun?”
“Give me your hand.” He put pressure against the base of her forefinger.
“Voodoo?” she mumbled.
“Acupressure. It should help the nausea.”
“Oh. Paige does that.”
“I know.”
One brown eye opened, then narrowed. “How do you know?”
“Because I know her from the dojo. We train together.”
“Ohhhh. So that’s what was up with her last night. I bet Liv’s mad.”
“Jury’s still out on that. Any better?”
“Maybe. Why did you scream another woman’s name when Liv was doing you?”
For a moment the question left him speechless. “Because I’m a jerk.”
“Very good answer,” she mumbled. “For a jerk, you have really good hands.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly. “Next time, maybe you shouldn’t have so many mojitos.”
“And maybe next time you should lay off the champagne,” she shot back.
He winced. “Touché. Can I leave the dog with you?”
“Of course. What are your intentions toward Liv?” she asked.
“Honorable.” He thought about what he hoped would happen later. “Mostly.”
One side of her mouth lifted. “All right. But she’s been hurt before. Don’t hurt her.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“I believe you. But even if you didn’t mean to, you hit her where it hurt the most.”
“I know. I know her fiancé left her for an old lover. And then I said… what I said.”
“Which was bad. But your being friends with Paige first was just the cherry on top.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Because Paige is like a honey bee. It’s a little ego deflating, walking next to her. Worse for Liv, because she doesn’t see herself like everyone else does.”
“Why?”
“From what I’ve seen, some of it was her mom. She was… demanding.”
“She told me her mother died the year before her father,” David remembered. “But she talked like she’d loved her mother.”
“She did. But life was tense in their house. It can’t have been easy raising a kid alone—and an illegitimate one at that—back then. Her mom was always, ‘Get an education, get a scholarship. Don’t depend on your face, use your brain.’”
“Good advice,” David said cautiously. “Isn’t it?”
“When it’s balanced. From what I’ve gathered during past mojito sessions, and what I saw myself, Liv’s mom put down her looks and nothing she did was good enough.”
“Olivia strongly resembles her father, just like Mia,” David said. “That must have been hard for her mother, too, to look at her daughter and see the man who’d tossed her aside. Still, that doesn’t make it less wrong or any easier for Olivia to get past.”
“True. But I’m sure you’ll find a way to make Liv feel really pretty. Just say her name this time. Olivia. Say it with me now. O-li-vi-a.”
David’s cheeks grew warm again. “I’m going now. What about the dog?”
“I’ll keep Mojo with me. He was mine first, you know. But he flunked training academy and needed a home. Olivia needed company after Doug left. It worked out. Hey, I heard you made a damn good save at the condo.”
“How did you hear that?”
“My dad was at the warehouse fire last night. He’s the vet taking care of that drugged guard dog. He said it was all the gossip. So, you play ball?”
“Went to school on a baseball scholarship.” For one disastrous semester. “Why?”
“Because I play on a league and we need a fielder. One of our guys broke his foot. We’re headed to the play-offs, but without him it won’t be easy. If you wanna come…”
He knew a “welcome to the group” when he heard one. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
“We practice Thursday night.” She scribbled an address. “Here.”
“If I can, I will. Thanks for the history. Hope the head stops exploding soon.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears. Don’t slam the door on your way out.”
He was back on the main road when his cell buzzed in his pocket. It was his mom. “I’m sorry, Ma. I should have called you this morning, but I wanted to let you sleep in.”
“Where are you, David?” she asked, a tension in her voice he didn’t like.
“North of town. Why? What’s wrong?”
“The news reported on that glass ball. You weren’t mentioned, but word’s gotten out. A dozen reporters were here, wanting to interview you on your ‘save.’”
“A girl died in that fire and a man was murdered. And they want the scoop on my catching a ball?” He blew out an angry breath. “I’ll be home to take care of it.”
“No, don’t come home. That’s why I’m calling. Glenn told them to go away, that you didn’t live here. Glenn said for you to go to the cabin for the day, that he’d drop off a change of clothes for you at the firehouse.”
“It’s not a bad idea. But what about you? I hate to leave you alone all day.”
“I’ve got a building full of people to keep me company. I got up early and made fresh bread. The Gorski sisters are adorable, and those babies in 2A? Well, I got my grandma fix for the day. Don’t worry about me. I’m having lunch with Tom and dinner with Evie, so I’m too busy for you anyway.” She said it lightly, but it didn’t fool him.
“Tom never has time for lunch with me. He’s always too busy studying.”
“He has to make time for me. I’m his grandma. You’re only the uncle. Just don’t worry about me. If you stay away, maybe this’ll blow over in a day or so.”
He sighed. “From your mouth to God’s ears, Ma.”
He’d no sooner hung up when another cal
l came in. Olivia. Hopefully calling to tell him he’d been outed as the ball catcher and not to tell him she was still mad and not coming back tonight for what would hopefully be stimulating conversation and more stimulating sex. “Hello?” he answered cautiously.
“It’s Olivia. The news picked up the story about the glass ball.”
“I know. My mom just called. I had a yard full of reporters, so I’m going to the cabin. So if—when—you get done…”
“Understood,” she said stiffly and he realized she couldn’t speak freely. Still, there was a huskiness in her voice that encouraged him. “My boss wants me to tell you not to talk to the press, but it seems like you have that covered.”
“There are a lot of things I’d like to cover,” he said, dropping his tone to a caress.
“Understood,” she said again, then cleared her throat. “I have to go.”
David hung up, then let go and grinned. Things were looking up.
• • •
Tuesday, September 21, 9:45 a.m.
Olivia pocketed her phone as she and Kane stood in line at the Deli, hoping her cheeks weren’t too red. No chance, because Kane was grinning at her. “You shut up.”
“I didn’t say a word,” he said. “I could continue not saying a word for a pastrami.”
“I’m not supporting your pastrami habit. You already had two this morning.”
“That was hours ago,” he grumbled.
“Fine. I’ll split one with you. I’m not that hungry anyway. I had an omelet already.”
“Who made you an omelet?” His eyes narrowed. “The firefighter who you left early last night came back, huh? Come on, Liv,” he whined. “Tell me.”
Annoyed, she looked to the front of the line. “What is taking so long this morning?”
“Avoidance has always been your go-to defense. This time of the morning Kirby’s always slow. It would go faster if he didn’t stop to chat with everyone.”
“You don’t like him because he flirts with you,” Olivia said slyly.
Rolling his eyes, Kane looked over the crowded tables. “The interpreter isn’t here.”
“She texted me ten minutes ago. She’s looking for a parking place. Relax. You’re awfully tense today.”
“Too much coffee.” The bell on the door jingled and he turned to look. “She’s here.” Val was dressed all in black, exactly as she had been the night before. She lifted a travel mug, indicating she had coffee and would just wait at the door. “Is the black a uniform or a fashion statement, I wonder?” Kane murmured.
“Uniform, of sorts,” Olivia said. “It provides contrast for her hands. Dark solids are good. Bright crazy prints, very bad.” They made it to the front of the line and Olivia spouted her order, but the barista behind the counter didn’t respond. His gaze was locked on the television mounted in the corner, his forehead furrowed in a frown.
“Yippee,” Olivia muttered. Channel 2’s reporter was talking about the glass ball. “Kirby.” She knocked on the counter. “Hey, Kirby.”
The barista blinked, then turned to her. “I’m sorry, Detective. That’s some story. In fact, unless I’m wrong, that’s your story. So what’s the sitch?”
She gave him a back-off look. “The sitch is a detective who really needs her coffee. Can I get two coffees and a pastrami and egg?”
Kirby looked over her shoulder to Kane. “Three in one day? I’m flattered,” he cooed, all but batting his eyes. Behind her, Kane tensed and Olivia’s lips twitched, knowing Kirby only baited Kane because it made her partner uncomfortable.
“Just fill the order, please,” Olivia said with a sigh. She paid him, dropped her change in his tip jar and took the coffees.
“Buh-bye, Detective,” Kirby sang, waving at Kane as he grabbed the sandwich.
Kane shook his head. “Good-bye, Kirby,” he said and Olivia chuckled.
Sutherland and Kane met the woman in black as he surreptitiously turned the wheel on the microphone tuner he’d clipped to his waist. Now he could hear them at the door.
“Sorry I’m late,” the woman said. Kane called her an interpreter. Sutherland said her black shirt provided contrast with her hands. That says sign language to me.
“Principal Oaks texted to say he’s ready for us,” the interpreter murmured as Olivia held open the door. “I told him we were running late.”
The door closed behind them. Oaks, principal, interpreter… Call me crazy, but I think they’re going to a school. For deaf kids. And then a piece of the puzzle fell into place. He’d wondered why the girl in the condo hadn’t run before she’d been trapped. Eric and Joel had certainly made enough noise to wake the dead.
But not the deaf. She hadn’t heard them, and she’d died. If the girl was deaf, the person who’d taken the boat may be, too. Sutherland and Kane obviously thought so.
He smiled at the next customer. “How can I help you?”
He filled the order while glancing up at the television. He’d seen the report on the glass balls the first time it aired but had pretended to be absorbed to keep Kane and Sutherland waiting—and chatting—a few moments longer.
So glass globes had been found at each scene. I’ll be damned. Who’s got the nostalgic streak? He might have guessed Joel, but Joel hadn’t been at Tomlinson’s because Joel was quite dead. Not Albert, because he never went into the condo. Eric? Maybe, but unlikely. Nostalgia was not the boy’s style. No, it had been Mary.
She’d just changed the game. The cops may have considered environmental terrorism as a motive, but the glass ball cemented it. Now the Feds would get involved.
A lot of things made sense now.
The FBI wouldn’t take too kindly to knowing about Eric’s plane ticket to France. Still, Albert was likely to take Eric’s fleeing a lot more personally. He couldn’t wait until the morning rush was over so he could tell him.
As for Mary, he had a pretty good idea of what her end game was. It would be damn entertaining. He snapped lids on the coffees for the waiting customer. “Now, you have a nice day,” he said with a smile. “Buh-bye. Who’s next?”
Tuesday, September 21, 9:45 a.m.
Eric carefully laid out his black suit and chose a dark, sober tie. Mary had called to say that Joel’s funeral would be at two this afternoon. He’d have just enough time for the service. He’d need to be at the airport two hours early for an international flight.
He’d land in Paris at 9:30 tomorrow morning, local time. That would be 2:30 a.m. here in Minneapolis. If the texter had no plans for tonight, he’d be fine. No one would miss him until he was gone. But if they were commanded to set another fire tonight with a midnight deadline, that left two and a half hours for the texter to post the video and for the police to find him and where he’d gone. All it would take would be a phone call and the police in Paris might be waiting for him at the gate. It was possible, certainly. But not probable. Right now, improbability would have to be good enough, because if he did nothing, capture and prison were guaranteed.
He’d only pack a small bag. Albert would notice things were missing if he packed too much. He had packed a few of the belongings he wouldn’t want to end up in police hands when he became a fugitive. He’d mail the box to an uncle who had been the family bad boy in his youth and was unlikely to turn it over to the cops.
Behind him the television news murmured and his heart skipped a beat when he heard the words that now represented his worst fear. Breaking news.
“Breaking news on the two arsons we’ve been covering,” the newscaster said and Eric slowly turned to watch. Then frowned. A glass ball? What the hell?
He heard SPOT and environmental arson and ongoing FBI investigations into some guy named Preston Moss that he’d never heard of. But Joel would have. Joel read all that shit. “Joel, you fucking idiot,” he muttered.
But it couldn’t have been Joel. He wasn’t there last night. And it couldn’t have been Albert, because he never entered the condo. And it wasn’t me. Mary. But why?
He grabbed his phone to dial her number, then stopped. Mary had left those glass balls. What if she’d left fingerprints, too? He didn’t want any more communication between the two of them. If they caught her, they’ll trace her to me.
He’d see her at Joel’s funeral and he’d ask her then. Unless they were caught before then. He drew a breath, closed his eyes, and forced himself to use the logic that had ruled his life until two fucking days ago when he’d decided that once, just once, he’d be a damn crusader.
The news reporter had said it was the signature of some radical environmental group back in the nineties. That Joel would know about them was certainly possible. That he would want to leave something behind to honor his hippie hero, Preston Moss, was certainly possible. That he and Mary had planned it behind his and Albert’s backs?
Totally possible. Joel and Mary had wanted to leave a signature and Eric had refused, saying that stopping the threat to the wetlands was enough. Albert had sided with him, and Joel and Mary had sulked. Looks like they decided to do it anyway.
He thought of Mary’s words as she’d lit the warehouse fuse. This one’s for you, Joel. That she’d continue with the signature they’d planned made perfect sense in a totally insane way. She hadn’t known about the murders and he himself had told her Joel would have wanted Tomlinson’s place torched.
So now what? Keeping Mary un-arrested was critical to his own protection, at least until he made it to France. Then everything would hit the fan and the three of them would be on their own. Using the texter’s disposable cell, he sent Mary a text.
Ball on news. WTF?
He hit SEND and waited, wondering how the hell to go about getting a fake ID. If the cops found out about them, there was no way he was making it to France on his own passport. Unfortunately, Albert was the only one he knew unsavory enough to know people who could get him false papers, and Albert would not be the best person to ask.
Then who? Eric pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d had a headache for days. He needed sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he saw that face at the window.
We killed her. But we didn’t mean to. It didn’t matter. She’s still dead. Visions of turning himself in taunted. But he wasn’t going to prison. I’d rather die.