Silent Scream

  “After it went really well,” Paige said, brows lifted meaningfully and Olivia sighed.

  “I wish I’d never met him, because I can’t imagine it ever being that good again.”

  “But you didn’t…”

  “Not all the way.” She sighed again. “But based on what did happen, I think all the way would have freaking killed me.”

  Paige was quiet a moment. “Maybe he just lied about doing all that nice stuff. Maybe he’s really a colossal jerk.”

  “I wish. Since he’s been here, he donates his time to charity. Habitat for Humanity, fixing stuff at the local shelters. Eve tells me about him all the time. She thinks David hung the moon. He really is a nice guy. He just… doesn’t want me.”

  There. She’d said it out loud. I should be feeling better now. But she wasn’t.

  “Liv, did it occur to you that maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move?”

  Olivia scoffed. “In my fantasies, sure.”

  “Liv?” Paige waited until Olivia looked at her. “If I were a guy and we’d parted ways under the circumstances you described?”

  “Only after you got me drunk,” Olivia interjected, frowning.

  “Like you would have ever told me otherwise? Duh. Of course I got you drunk. But as I was saying, if I were Wedding-Guy, I’d be waiting for you to make the first move.”

  Olivia remembered the tilt of David Hunter’s perfect chin before she’d driven away. It had felt like a challenge. But she also remembered that one night vividly. She remembered the one word, that one name he’d said, even more vividly. “No.”

  “Why not?” Paige asked, exasperated. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “The same thing that happened the last time,” Olivia said darkly, and her body throbbed in places that had nothing to do with her workout.

  “And that would be a bad thing, how? You haven’t had anyone since. You’re under so much stress that you’re about to crack wide open. What’s the harm in a fling? So he used you. Use him back. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Olivia sat up and swiped at her neck with a towel. I become like you, she thought, with so many boyfriends I need a spreadsheet to keep track of them all. But of course she said nothing of the kind. Paige was her oldest friend. “I’ll think about it,” was what she said instead. “Let’s stretch. I have to catch a little sleep before morning meeting.”

  Monday, September 20, 7:10 a.m.

  “Whoa.” Jeff Zoellner stood on the condo’s first floor, staring up through the room-sized hole that went all the way up to the fourth floor. “You woulda felt that for sure.”

  Grimly, David followed his gaze up, then looked down into the basement. The first floor had also been burned through. “Yeah. I guess I owe you one.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.” Jeff starting walking again, tapping the handle of his ax on the floor as he sounded for weak spots. David did the same with the end of his Halligan, and together they moved toward the back of the condo. Each of the six floors had six units, but the units on this side of the building had sustained the worst damage. “I think we’re solid from here on out,” Jeff said. “We can let Barlow in now.”

  Micah waited in the doorway. He wore a hard hat and boots, but was otherwise dressed like a detective. The end of his yellow tie poked up from the pocket of his suit. He held a video camera in one hand and a light bar in the other, and had worked alongside them diligently but intelligently, treading in areas they’d declared safe.

  And he hadn’t said another word about Olivia and for that David was grateful. There were too many dangers here to be thinking about anything else but the job.

  Which is what David had told himself every time he caught himself thinking about her, wondering why Micah Barlow felt she was his business, wondering if the two of them had history, not wanting that picture in his head. David grimaced. Except now that he’d thought it, the picture existed, if only in his imagination. Taunting him.

  If Micah and Olivia had a past, at least they had no present. David had kept a close enough eye on her that he’d have known. But if she did have someone? I’ll walk away.

  And if she doesn’t have anyone but just doesn’t want you? Given the facts, that was the more likely outcome. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

  “Where can I step?” Micah called from the doorway.

  “Floor’s solid where you’re standing,” David said, forcing himself to focus yet again, “but it gets spongy about two feet from the edge of the hole.”

  Micah looked up, then down, just as David had. “Goddamn. You’re a lucky bastard.”

  “Yeah, I got that part,” David said. “Over here was what we wanted you to see. They poured the carpet padding glue along this line.” David pointed to the pour patterns zigzagging from the front door of the unit to the hole, continuing through to the back bedrooms. “It’s the same pour pattern we found on the second floor. I think they poured a line from the door and from the back of the unit, meeting here.”

  “Makes sense,” Micah said, filming. “They probably dumped what was left in the cans where the floor failed. Fire would have been hotter there. The manager said rolls of carpet were stored here, same place on each floor. Waterlogged, that would have been enough weight to crash through the second and third floors. When the first floor collapsed, all three carpet rolls fell into the basement.”

  For a minute David thought Micah would venture to the edge of the hole to get video straight down, but he stopped while still in the safe zone. From the corner of his eye, David could see Jeff’s mouth snap shut, discarding the warning he’d been about to bark. It hadn’t taken more than a few runs with Jeff to know cops made him real edgy.

  “After they poured the glue, they tossed the cans to the side.” David pointed with the end of his Halligan, and Micah kept filming. “Two cans there, and two more upstairs, roughly in the same spot. Together with the one we found at the entrance, they poured out five. One can on each floor would have been too much. These were amateurs.”

  “I think you’re right.” Micah lowered the camera. “Anything else you see?”

  “We’re working our way outward,” Jeff said, tapping his way as he went.

  David did the same, then stopped when his Halligan hit something soft and he heard the crackle of charred paper. “Look at that.”

  Jeff sighed. “Last time you said that I had to pull your ass out of the abyss.”

  But David was already kneeling, shining his light on what he’d found. “It’s a backpack, or it was anyway.”

  “We’ll get it to the lab,” Micah said. “Maybe they can find something left.”

  Jeff gently nudged the corner of the bag with his ax handle and part of the side crumbled away. “Good luck with that. What the hell are you looking at, David?”

  David had bent low, shining his light on a lump of black that stuck up from the debris. “I don’t know. Some kind of a case, warped open. Whatever it held is melted to the bottom of it.” A bit of pink plastic peeked from the charred lump.

  “I’ll get some stills to show Homicide.” Micah sighed impatiently. “Damn. I’m late for their morning meeting.” He snapped a few pictures with his digital camera. “CSU will bag it. We’ll figure out what it is at the lab. I’ll be back later. Don’t touch anything.”

  “We’re not stupid,” Jeff muttered when Micah was gone.

  “Neither is he,” David said absently, still staring at the case’s melted contents.

  “He’s a cop,” Jeff stated flatly, “and they all want to be firefighters. Idiots. They’d burn up if it weren’t for us, charging in without gear, with the wrong kind of extinguisher. Ready to save the damn day before they even know what kind of fire they got.”

  David let him rant, knowing he’d say the same thing regardless of any response David made. There was a story there, he figured, and one day Jeff would tell it.

  Story. David stared at the mangled case, his mind pulling a
long-forgotten memory. He’d been a small boy, sitting on his grandmother’s lap. He’d always been more fascinated with gadgets than the story she’d tell, especially the gadget that sat behind her ear. He’d reach for it, only to have his small hands gently pushed away. No, David, she’d say, don’t touch. That’s not a toy.

  “We should have told Barlow to bring us food,” Jeff finished with a sigh. “I’m starving. Let’s take a break and see what’s left on the truck. Hey. Dave. Come on.”

  “I know what this pink plastic thing is,” David said.

  “Don’t tell me. I want to guess,” Jeff said. “Okay, give me a hint.”

  It was a game they sometimes played that helped them deal when they had to poke around the ashes of people’s lives. “It whistles as it works.” David straightened, hoping he could catch Micah before he left, but through the broken window he could see the cop’s taillights going through the gate.

  Behind him, he heard Jeff’s heavy sigh and knew he’d figured it out. “Dammit, David. The girl never had a chance, did she?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. I’m going outside to call Micah’s cell. He’ll want to tell Olivia.”

  “Olivia?” Jeff asked, new curiosity in his voice. “You mean Detective Sutherland? She was pretty hot. And she was watching you.”

  “Leave it alone,” David said flatly. “And don’t ask. I mean it.”

  For all his teasing, Jeff knew when to quit. “Chill, man. I’m going out with you. I need to get some food.”

  • • •

  Monday, September 20, 8:00 a.m.

  “Happy Monday.” Captain Bruce Abbott dropped a plastic bowl of cookies on the round table in his office. “Compliments of Lorna.”

  Olivia eyed the bowl skeptically. “Lorna’s cooking again?”

  Abbott settled into the chair behind his desk. “Her guidance counselor said if she retook the class and got a better grade, it would cancel last year’s D.”

  Micki popped the lid off the bowl. “How bad can they be?”

  “Some people ought not bake,” Kane said sourly.

  “Got it.” Micki shot a wicked look at Olivia. “Let Barlow test them. If they’re awful, it’ll serve him right.” She glanced at Abbott. “No offense.”

  Abbott’s lips were twitching beneath his mustache. “None taken.” He looked at the empty chairs meaningfully. “Speaking of which, where are Barlow and Gilles?”

  “Ian’s not coming,” Olivia said. “He was almost ready to start the girl’s autopsy when I stopped by the morgue.”

  Kane studied her face. “When did you stop by the morgue?” he asked, when Why didn’t you go home to sleep like I told you to? was what he really wanted to know.

  “On my way in. I wanted a photo of the girl.” Which wasn’t entirely untrue. After her workout she’d gone home but couldn’t sleep, so she’d done what she always did—worked. “I don’t know where Barlow is. I told him oh-eight.”

  “I’m here, I’m here.” Barlow barreled through Abbott’s doorway and dropped into a chair. Instantly, everyone leaned away from him. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I came straight from the scene. Didn’t have a chance to shower.”

  “We can tell,” Micki said, then smiled kindly. “Here, have a cookie.”

  Beside Olivia, Kane coughed to cover what would have been a chuckle.

  “Thanks. I didn’t have time for breakfast.” Barlow grabbed a handful and Olivia felt the prick of conscience.

  “I’d take a little bite first,” she said and he narrowed his eyes.

  “You made these?” he asked suspiciously. “You trying to poison me now?”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. Let him suffer. “Since we’re all here, we can get started.” She started to close Abbott’s door, but Abbott lifted his hand.

  “Leave it open,” he said. “Dr. Donahue will be joining us.”

  Olivia’s shoulders went rigid. Donahue was the department shrink. The one who wasn’t helping after three mandated visits. She sat back down. Great.

  “I want a profile of this arsonist,” Abbott went on and Olivia could feel his eyes on her. To be accurate, everyone’s eyes were on her, even Barlow’s. Meddling bastard. “Donahue’s got time and experience with arsonists. And here she is.”

  The psychiatrist came through the door, dressed in a trim blue suit that looked like it had been tailored just for her. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Dr. Donahue,” Abbott said as she took her seat. “Do you know everyone?”

  “Everyone but you.” She smiled at Barlow. “I’m Jessie Donahue.”

  “Micah Barlow, arson investigator. Don’t eat the cookies,” Barlow added dryly.

  The confusion on Donahue’s face under other circumstances would have made Olivia smile, but the very presence of the woman had her on edge. She shook off the discomfort. “Let’s get this done, okay? What do we know, Mick? Any ID on the girl?”

  “Nothing so far. The girl’s prints aren’t in AFIS, so no criminal record, at least one that isn’t sealed. No response yet from the Missing Children database, but I’m expecting an answer any hour now. No Amber Alerts, so as of this minute, no ID.”

  “I sent her morgue photo to the Florida Highway Patrol,” Olivia said. “I hope the Gator nail decals pan out, even if she’s not in the databases. What about the gel?”

  “I won’t get those results till after lunch,” Micki said, “but I do have something on the ball. We wanted to preserve it, just the way the firefighter found it until we knew what the gel was. So we did an image of what was underneath all that gel. This came through just as I was leaving to come up here.” She put a photograph on the table.

  The ball was a glass globe of the world. Etched onto the glass were the continents.

  “It looks like a paperweight,” Olivia said cautiously, although her mind was already stringing globe, world, and arson together, creating a very bad feeling.

  Beside her, Micah Barlow swore softly and grabbed the photograph, staring at it in consternation. “No, it’s a signature. One that hasn’t been seen for ten years.”

  “Twelve,” Micki said. “I cross-referenced glass globes with arson.”

  Barlow rubbed his hands over his eyes in a tired gesture. “And you came up with SPOT—Societus Patronus Orbis Terra. Shit.”

  “Fellowship of the protectors of the earth,” Dr. Donahue murmured.

  Olivia sat back, frowning. The bad feeling just got worse. “Ecoterrorists? Hell.”

  “With bad Latin grammar,” Donahue said, almost to herself, then looked up at the group. “It’s an interesting addition to the profile.”

  “Grammar aside,” Abbott said, “what are we dealing with?”

  “A group of environmental activists we believed had disbanded,” Barlow said. “They were at their most active in the early nineties. SPOT operated on the leaderless resistance model—small cells that allegedly have no lateral connection to one another or vertical connection to a ‘boss.’ They targeted commercial development of wildlife habitats, like the wetlands bordered by last night’s condo.”

  Abbott had leaned forward, chin on his folded hands. “M.O.?”

  “Usually smart,” Barlow said. “They used electronic timers to start their fires and always left behind a glass globe paperweight, but not covered in any gel. They’d wrap it in fire-resistant fabrics, usually pieces of firefighters’ protective gear, coats, et cetera.”

  “They wanted it found,” Olivia murmured. “Intact.”

  “Absolutely,” Barlow said, brows crunched. “But they always, always contacted the local news minutes after the firefighters were called to the scene.”

  “They didn’t this time,” Kane said. “Why?”

  Barlow shook his head. “I don’t know. They also never used guns.”

  “Was this a smart fire?” Olivia asked.

  “Aspects were. Like shutting down the camera systems and shutting off the water to the sprinklers. That took planning. They als
o had access to the guard’s schedule and they knew to open all the fire doors. If the girl tried to get out via the stairwell, she would have been stopped by the smoke and the heat. But in other ways they were stupid. They used the carpet adhesive, which is incredibly flammable. The fire would have spread quickly. It’s a wonder they made it out alive. Their M.O. last night wasn’t consistent with their M.O. before.”

  “What are you saying?” Olivia asked. “They’ve reopened under new management?”

  Barlow lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s a front. If someone knew about SPOT and wanted to deflect attention from their real motive, they could leave the globe behind and have us chasing our tails.”

  “Or that could be wishful thinking and they really are ecoterrorists,” Kane said.

  “Meaning, we call in the Feds,” Abbott said flatly.

  Olivia’s jaw tightened. “I had to tell Henry Weems’s widow that he wasn’t ever coming home again. Weems was MPD, one of ours. So whoever shot him is ours, too.”

  “I agree,” Abbott said grimly. “For now, we call the Feds, just to check on anything new they might have on this group. If these are eco-nuts, I don’t want my ass on the line for sitting on information. But if these SPOT assholes claim responsibility, we will bring the Feds in. No arguments.”

  He was right, Olivia knew, just as she knew she was being emotional. “No arguments. Besides, the differences far outweigh the similarities.”

  Barlow was frowning. “Maybe not. There is one other similarity. In their last arson twelve years ago, a woman died. Nobody was supposed to be in the building, but this woman was working late and had fallen asleep at her desk. After that, the group went dormant. It was assumed they’d gone their separate ways.”

  “That was SPOT?” Abbott asked. “I remember that fire now.”

  “That’s a disturbing coincidence,” Jess Donahue said. “If they knew this girl was in the condo last night and set the fire anyway… that’s a whole different ball game.”

  “Find them first, then find out what they knew and when,” Abbott said, then turned to Barlow. “Leaderless resistance groups often have a symbolic leader. Did SPOT?”