Chapter Fifteen
Tuesday, September 21, 4:45 p.m.
David stood at the window looking at Lincoln, who was rocking in his chair. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go in and talk to him,” Olivia said. “Like you did at the cabin. Calm him down. Then I’ll come in and try to find out if he knows anything about these two fires. After that, we want to know if he knows where Moss is.”
“How long has he been schizophrenic?” David asked.
“Why does that matter?” Special Agent Crawford demanded.
David already didn’t like him, but that wasn’t his business.
“Since he was twenty-one,” Donahue said. “A common age to manifest.”
“And right about the time he met Moss,” David said. “Lincoln was ripe for the picking by a radical cultlike leader, wasn’t he?”
“Likely,” Donahue agreed. “He would have been frightened and confused by what was happening in his mind and reached out to a group that helped him stay grounded.”
“SPOT?” Crawford snorted. “A radical environmental group kept him grounded?”
“They probably welcomed his zeal,” Donahue answered, as if Crawford hadn’t dismissed her. “When he was ‘up,’ he would have been quite an asset.”
“And seeing a charred body that he’d helped kill?” David said.
“Would have pushed him over the edge, putting horrific images in his mind.”
“Understandable,” David murmured. “I’ve seen a few charred bodies and it’s an… unforgettable sight.”
“Hunter,” Crawford said mockingly. “Do you feel sorry for this man?”
David looked him in the eye, gratified he had to look down several inches to do so. “This man killed a woman and permanently damaged the lives of two good firefighters. I don’t feel sorry for him.” Which was true when he thought about it like that. “Satisfied?”
Crawford had a sour look about him. “Yes.”
“Then I guess I’m ready to go in.” He walked into the room, pausing at the table. He had to remind himself that the pathetic man before him had violated Glenn’s belongings, was going to steal his laptop, and had been armed with a lethal weapon. Still, he couldn’t push Lincoln’s eerie whisper from his mind. Always there. Always there.
Did he feel sorry for the man? When he thought about the whisper, yes, David found that he did. But he struck all pity from his voice. “Hi, Lincoln.”
Lincoln’s rocking slowed, but it didn’t stop, nor did his chanting of Valla Eam.
David sat and began reciting one of Moss’s speeches, as he’d done before. Within a few minutes the chanting had slowed. After another few minutes, Lincoln was reciting along with him. Finally David stopped. After finishing the paragraph, Lincoln fell silent.
“Lincoln, the police wanted me to talk to you. You got upset. What happened?”
Lincoln scrunched his eyes closed. “He yelled. In my ear. In my head. It was loud.”
“I’m sorry,” David said quietly. “I don’t like it when people yell at me either. Lincoln, you know you’re in trouble, right?”
Lincoln nodded, saying nothing, eyes still squeezed shut.
“Detective Sutherland drove you down here. Can she talk to you now?”
The man didn’t open his eyes. “No.”
“Then, you have a problem,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “You broke into my house. You had a gun. The police want to know why.” And after the adrenaline had settled, David realized he wanted to know who’d told Lincoln he was there. “Detective Sutherland won’t be loud in your head. You need to stay calm.”
David rose when Olivia came into the room. “Hi, Lincoln.”
Lincoln still didn’t open his eyes. “He stays. Cat-saving fireman stays.”
Olivia’s blond brows rose. “He saves cats?”
“Little old ladies’ cats in trees. He stays.”
She motioned to a seat and David sat. She sat next to him, across from Lincoln. “He’s not your lawyer, Lincoln,” she murmured. “I read you your rights. You have the right to an attorney. David Hunter is not your lawyer.”
“I know. He stays. He understands.”
She met David’s eyes, a frown in hers. “What does he understand?” she asked, but Lincoln was silent. David shrugged, unsure of what to say in front of the man. Unsure what he’d say were he alone with her. Yes, he understood. But he wasn’t proud of it.
“Okay,” Olivia said softly. “I want to talk to you about the glass ball.”
“No. He’s listening.”
“Who?”
“The loud man. Where is Moss? Where is Moss?”
“No, he’s not. Special Agent Crawford had to leave. He’s not listening.”
David wasn’t sure if she was lying or not. Apparently Lincoln wasn’t either. Lincoln opened his eyes, searched her face plaintively. “He wants Moss.”
“Yes, he does,” she said. “But I want to talk about the glass ball.”
“It was Mother Earth,” Lincoln said dreamily. “Defend her. Valla Eam.”
“You left them at fires, these balls,” she said.
“Yes. Marked. Valla Eam.”
Olivia leaned forward. “How were they marked?”
“On the pole.”
She frowned slightly. “On the pole?”
“On the pole. Valla Eam.” He sang it and Olivia tilted her head, watching him.
“Okay. Did you mark the big glass ball that was left at the condo?”
Lincoln blinked, seeming genuinely surprised. “No.”
“How did you know about it?”
“News.”
“Where were you last night?”
“Blue Moon.” He sang again, this time singing the melody to the old song.
Her eyes sharpened. “The bar? On Hennepin? When did you leave?”
“Bells. Last call.” He called it, like a train conductor.
“I understand. Lincoln, how did you know it was David who caught the ball?”
“Firemen. But the old man said he didn’t live there in the old house.”
“How did you know he was in the cabin?”
“The girl told me. Baby smiled.”
The girls in 2A. “One of my tenants,” David whispered to Olivia and she nodded.
“Lincoln, do you know where Preston Moss is?”
Tears filled his eyes. “He left but she stays. Always there. Always there.” And then he began to rock again, his eyes clenched tightly.
“Who stays?” she asked, but Lincoln was gone again, back into his own mind.
“The woman he killed,” David murmured. “She’s always there, in his mind.”
“I think we’re done here,” she murmured. The two of them went to the observation room and David closed the door. “I don’t think he’s involved in our fires,” she said.
David searched the room. Crawford was indeed absent. “Where’s the FBI guy?”
“He got pissed when you said you were sorry he yelled at Lincoln,” Kane said. “Stomped out. What did he mean by ‘marked on the pole’?”
“The pole of the world?” Barlow said, frowning. “But there was no mention of that in any of the documentation I’ve read on SPOT.”
“Let’s see if our glass ball has a mark,” Abbott said. “As for this guy, psych ward at the jail. Fifteen minutes till our five o’clock. I’ll see you all in my office. Mr. Hunter, thank you. We appreciate your help this afternoon.”
“You’re welcome.” Abbott and the others left, leaving him alone with Olivia who had been watching him carefully since they’d left the interview room. “What?” he asked her.
“What did you understand, David?”
He wanted to sigh. Wanted to run. Wanted to look away, to lie. Instead he answered as honestly as he could. “I guess that what he saw that night still haunts him.”
Her gaze hadn’t wavered. “I’ll see you later. I have to finish an interview after our meeting, so it’ll be nine before I’m finished f
or the night. Where will you be?”
His heart rose from his gut to slam against his ribs. “Where do you want me to be?”
She hesitated. “The cabin was nice. I’ll call you when I’m on my way.” She turned to go, then turned back. “You promised to answer my question tonight.”
His heart kept rising. Now it was in his throat, choking him. “Yes, I did. Who am I?”
“Exactly. That’s what I want to know. Come on, I have to sign you out.”
Tuesday, September 21, 4:55 p.m.
He stepped out of his van and took a great gulp of fresh air. The interpreter’s screams still rang in his ears and his stomach still churned. If only they’d just tell, it would make it so much easier.
She’d tried to stay silent, begged for her life, sobbed about her children, but in the end, thankfully for both of us, the interpreter hadn’t held out all that long.
He had a name and a description. Kenny Lathem, sixteen, sandy blond hair, brown eyes, about five ten, wearing blue Converse high-tops. He wasn’t the boy they’d been looking for, though. They were looking for someone with dark hair and size 10 shoes.
But Kenny knew something and the cops were going to try talking to him again tonight to find out just what he knew. I have to find him first. Trouble was, the kid lived in a dormitory, in a damn school. How am I going to get him out? How will I communicate with him?
The interpreter was quite dead, but he wouldn’t have trusted her. He’d use paper and pen. But first he needed access to the kid.
He flipped open the woman’s phone and smiled at the latest text she’d received. Olivia Sutherland was tied up, wanted to meet back at the school at seven.
I’m so sorry, he typed back. I can’t help you. I have a commitment tonight. That would keep the cops from worrying when she didn’t show at seven. Then he found the most recent text she’d sent to her sons. That wasn’t hard to find. She’d told them to do their homework before watching TV after school. Have an appointment tonight, he typed. Dinner in the fridge. He had no idea if there was dinner in the fridge, but she’d sent texts like this in the past. The kids were teenagers. They wouldn’t starve.
Now, nobody would be looking for her for hours, maybe till morning. In the meantime, he didn’t want the interpreter’s body found. It would tip off the cops that he knew about the boy they sought and that wouldn’t be constructive at all. He dragged her body into the trees and rolled it into the shallow grave he’d dug while she slept off the ether with which he’d drugged her. He covered her up with dirt and drove away.
• • •
Tuesday, September 21, 5:10 p.m.
When Olivia got back to Abbott’s office everyone was already seated—except for Special Agent Crawford who stood staring out Abbott’s window. The room was very tense and Olivia was sure Crawford was the reason.
“Okay,” Abbott said, ignoring the Fed. “So where are we?”
“Lincoln is on his way to the psych ward,” Kane said. “When we’re done here, Liv and I can hit the Blue Moon bar and check his alibi. I don’t think he did our fires.”
“But he did give us something,” Barlow said. He took one of the large etched globes from an evidence envelope, turning it until the north pole pointed toward them. “VE, scratched into the glass, so light you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it. Valla Eam.”
Crawford slowly turned, his face expressionless. “What did you say?”
“VE,” Barlow repeated. “Where Lincoln said it would be. Scratched into the pole.”
Everyone was watching Crawford and the Fed clenched his jaw. “When did the suspect say that?”
“After you left,” Barlow said.
Crawford was at the table in three steps. “Give it to me.”
Barlow snatched the ball. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours,” he said coldly.
His jaw clenching even harder, Crawford grabbed his briefcase from the floor and set it on the round table with a bang. “I don’t like the tone of your voice, Sergeant.”
“And I don’t care,” Barlow said evenly. “You held back information.”
“We didn’t want copycats, so we kept that detail from the press.” Crawford passed the small evidence box he’d shown them that morning to Barlow.
“We aren’t the press,” Barlow snapped. “We’re investigating three homicides. You should have told us. We could have checked this out this morning.”
“I looked at your damn ball this morning,” Crawford bit out. “I already knew.”
Abbott’s brows rose. “That’s simply… unpleasant, Crawford.”
Barlow shook his head, likely at a loss for words. “Can I see your glass, Micki?”
Micki gave him the small magnifying glass she carried and Barlow removed the smaller globe from its box and studied it. “Identical,” he pronounced.
“When did you plan to tell us, Crawford?” Abbott asked mildly. Oh, he was pissed.
“When we took someone into custody. Until then, I was under orders to share that information on a need-to-know basis.”
Abbott was visibly trying to control his temper. “So, based on your need-to-know info, you’d already determined our arsons were connected to yours.”
“I have been searching for these bastards for twelve years. That drooling psycho down there is guilty as hell,” Crawford said between his teeth. “He knows where Moss is. He can identify the others who set my fire. Doesn’t that matter to you people?”
“It matters a lot,” Olivia said. “He and others caused the death of an innocent woman twelve years ago and he should pay. But make him pay for what he did. If he’s not guilty of setting our fires, we’re wasting valuable time arguing.”
Crawford’s jaw closed with a loud clack. “Give me back my evidence.”
“After we photograph it,” Abbott said calmly. “I wouldn’t argue if I were you.”
Crawford seethed. “We are wasting time here.”
“Indeed,” Abbott said, deliberately misunderstanding. “Micki, what do you have?”
Micki glanced at the rigid Crawford from the corner of her eye. “Pictures from Tomlinson’s desk,” she said and spread them out. “We recovered a few more pieces.”
“I’d hoped not to have to see Tomlinson having sex again,” Olivia said and sensed Micki was waiting for them to discover something she’d already found.
“These weren’t taken at the same time,” Kane said. “Look at Tomlinson in this second one. He’s skinnier. Has muscle tone in his torso. He was working out. Buffing up.”
“The timeline’s wrong,” Olivia said. She blinked hard, trying to make the pieces fall into place. “Mrs. T said she found out about her husband’s infidelity and hired a PI.”
“On the recommendation of her friend,” Kane supplied.
“Right. She hired the PI and said she had photos…”
“A week later,” Kane murmured. “She said she copied her files the next day and that was June fifteenth according to the time stamp on the files she gave us. So the earliest these pictures could have been taken was June eighth.”
Olivia placed the before and after pictures of Tomlinson side by side. “So he’s white and doughy and then he’s white and toned. It must have taken him months to get this toned. In this ‘after’ picture his skin should be tanned because the PI would have taken it a few weeks ago at the latest. Tomlinson played golf all summer. These ‘before’ pictures were taken long before June eighth. That means Mrs. Tomlinson is lying.”
Micki looked impressed. “Wow. I didn’t see that.”
Olivia looked at her, surprised. “Then what did you see?”
“The mistress’s shoes.”
Noah chuckled. “It’s always the shoes with you, Mick.”
Micki arched a brow. “I was right on your case.” Micki had correctly predicted the Pit-Guy’s shoe fetish by studying victim photos. “And I’m right again.”
Olivia gave both pictures another look and sighed. “Yes, she is. Look at th
e pile of clothing on the floor. You have to squint unless you’re the shoe queen.”
Micki pretended to buff her nails. “The shoe queen rules. Those are snow boots on top of her parka and long underwear. It was too warm for those clothes in June.”
“Let’s talk to Louise Tomlinson,” Kane said. “And find out what’s really true.”
“Nice job,” Abbott said. “What else, Micki?”
“We pieced together some papers from the backpack the firefighters found at the condo. It’s a page from a book. I Googled the phrases. It’s from Ethan Frome.”
“Required reading for high schoolers,” Abbott said. “My daughter has to read it. Any scraps with a student’s name?”
“Not yet. We’re still sifting through rubble. We took soil samples around the path the arsonists took away from the condo. It’s strange. We found two sets of foot smudges coming out of the condo. The arson dog picked up the accelerant close to the fence where they escaped, but found evidence of only one pair of shoes.”
“One of them took off his shoes?” Olivia asked.
“Don’t know. That’s why we took the soil samples. We’re back to shoes again.”
Abbott’s mouth turned up. “Keep me updated. Noah?”
“No news on Camp Longfellow,” Noah said. “I contacted the state troopers to check the campsite, but it’s not staffed right now. I left voice mails all over. I’ll keep trying.”
“What about the background checks on the condo construction workers and Tomlinson’s employees?” Kane asked.
“No one common to both,” Noah said. “I tracked the girl Tomlinson was having the affair with. He had the deed for one of his properties transferred to her name, a house out in Woodview. The bank started foreclosure on the property last month.”
“When did Tomlinson transfer the deed?” Olivia asked.
Noah’s brows went up. “Last December.”
“The shoe queen rules,” Micki crowed. “Snow boots do not lie.”
Abbott’s grin was quick, but genuine. “You go, Mick. Noah, keep working on the camp. We need to know who that girl might have met at camp this summer.”
“Kenny, the sixteen-year-old at the school, definitely recognized her,” Olivia said. “We’re going back tonight to talk to him again.”