“No,” she breathed.
He didn’t acknowledge her protest. They’d come to an intersection. Without hesitation, he yanked her left, down a darker, skinnier street that already smelled of urine and dumpster trash and dark things never spoken of again.
She dug in her heels, sobering up quickly now, doing her best to resist. At 110 pounds to his 190, her efforts hardly made a difference. He jerked her tighter against him, right arm clamped around her waist, and continued on.
“Stop!” she tried to scream.
But no sound came out. Her voice was locked in her throat. She was breathless, lungs too constricted to scream. Instead, a faint whimper, a sound she was embarrassed to admit was her own but knew from past experience had to be.
“I have a family,” she panted at last.
He didn’t respond. Fresh intersection, new turn. Skittering between tall brick buildings, out of public view. She already had no idea where they were.
“Please . . . stop . . .” she squeezed out. His arm was too tight around her waist, bruising her ribs. She was going to vomit. Willed it to happen as maybe that would gross him out, convince him to let her go.
No such luck. She heaved abruptly, purple liquid spewing from her mouth, spraying her feet, the side of his pants. He grimaced, jerked reflexively away, then quickly recovered and yanked her once again forward, pulling her by the elbow.
“I’m gonna be sick again,” she moaned, feet tangling, finally slowing his momentum.
“Drank too much.” His voice was filled with scorn.
“You don’t understand. You don’t know who I am.”
He paused long enough to adjust his grip on her arm. “Shouldn’t have come to the bar alone.”
“But I’m always alone.”
He didn’t get it. Or maybe he didn’t care. He stared at her, gaze flat, face expressionless. Then, his arm shot forward, and he socked her in the eye.
Her neck snapped back.
Her cheek exploded. Her eyes welled with tears.
She had a thought. Fleeting. Faint. Maybe the secret to understanding the universe. But then it was gone.
And much like Mr. Haven’t I Seen You Around Here Before, she ceased to exist.
Friday night. End of a long week. She’d earned this.
* * *
HE MOVED HER. By foot, by car, she didn’t know. But when she regained consciousness, she was no longer on the mean streets of Boston, but tucked somewhere dark and dank. The floor beneath her bare feet felt cold. Concrete. Cracked and uneven. A basement, she thought, or maybe a garage.
She could see faintly. Enough light from three small windows placed high on one wall. Not letting in daylight, but a dim yellow haze. As if a streetlight was outside those windows, permitting an ambient glow.
She used the wash of illumination to determine several things at once: Her hands were bound in front of her with plastic zip ties; she’d been stripped completely naked; and at the moment, at least, she was alone.
Her heart rate accelerated. Her head hurt, her skin prickling with goose bumps, and odds were she’d miss this state of relative safety soon enough. The kind of guy who knocked out his date and removed every stitch of her clothing wasn’t the kind that was going to leave her untouched for long. Even now, he was most likely preparing for the rest of the evening’s festivities. Humming away to himself. Contemplating games he could indulge in with his new toy. Feeling like he was the biggest, baddest asshole in town.
She smiled then. Though once again, it wasn’t a happy expression on her face.
First off, inventory. Basement or garage inevitably meant storage, and as the saying went, one person’s trash was another person’s treasure.
He’d been stupid not to bind her ankles as well. Not as experienced as he thought. Not as clever as he was about to wish he’d been. But then, people saw what they wanted to see. She’d been taken in by his pecs. He’d no doubt assessed her as an easy blonde. Turned out, they were both in for some surprises this evening.
She found a heavy worktable. Raising her bound wrists, she skimmed her fingers across the wooden surface. She identified a thick metal vise built into one corner. Moved on more quickly in search of what she hoped might be an assortment of tools. But no, he wasn’t that stupid and she wasn’t that lucky.
No abandoned sharp objects, pliers, hammer. She searched the room’s perimeter next, almost tripping over a metal can, then reaching out quickly to grab it before it fell. No sense in alerting him to her conscious state any sooner than necessary. Lid steady, nerves still shaky, she forced herself to continue.
The metal can yielded a filled plastic garbage bag. She set it aside in the short term, then paced the remaining two walls. She identified a collection of empty gas cans, as well as two plastic jugs. Based on smell, one gallon jug held the remains of windshield wiper fluid, the other antifreeze. So she was most likely in a garage. Being Boston, probably a detached unit, allowing the bartender even more privacy.
She didn’t dwell on what might happen next, why a man like him required such privacy. For that matter, she refused to get caught up in the stickiness of the floor in the rear corner. Or the smell that was becoming nearly impossible to ignore. An odor that matched the taste of blood on her tongue.
She took the jug of antifreeze and moved it to the bare wooden worktable. His first mistake. Her first victory.
She found a shovel propped up against the wall. With renewed vigor, she placed her plastic bindings against the blade and rubbed vigorously. After a minute or two, she was breathing heavily, sweat stinging her swollen eye. Yet to judge by the feel of the zip tie . . . Nothing. The edge of the spade was too dull, or the plastic too durable. She tried for another moment, then forced herself to abandon the effort.
Zip ties were tough. Frankly, she would’ve preferred metal cuffs. But at least he’d done the courtesy of binding her hands in front of her, where she still had considerable use of them, while not pulling the plastic so tight she lost all feeling in her fingertips.
She could move her feet; she could move her arms.
She could hold herself perfectly still and feel the void, right there. Dark. Comforting. Silent.
Alone in a crowded room, she thought, and for a moment, her body swayed, listening to music only she could hear.
Then she grew serious again. Trash. It was time.
She tore through the thin plastic bag using her fingers. First thing that hit her was the stench. Rotten food, rotted flesh, something worse. She gagged, felt tears well in her eyes and forced down a flood of bile. Now was not the time to be squeamish as she forced her fingers into oozing garbage she could feel but not see. Paper towels. Wet piles of God knows what. Discarded food containers. Takeout. From inside the home, or food he’d brought out here to share with his catch or munch on himself when taking a break from his entertainment. Halfway through the bag she came upon a new batch of rotten, more organic smelling this time. Her fingers moved quicker. Paper-dry petals. Squishy green stems. Flowers. A tossed bouquet. Because in addition to food, he plied his playthings with treats?
More likely, she decided, the last ruse he’d used to lure an unsuspecting victim. Then, in the next instant, it occurred to her: Where there’s a cheap florist’s bouquet . . .
Bound hands moving quickly now. Diving into the foul pile. Digging determinedly through rancid Chinese food and sticky duck sauce. Tossing aside empty coffee cups and more and more gooey flower carcasses. Plastic, she was seeking the feel of a thin plastic packet. Small, square, with a sharp edge . . .
Bang.
The noise came from directly behind her. The sound of a hand, a foot, connecting with a metal garage door. She couldn’t help herself. She froze. Naked. Shivering. Elbow-deep in garbage. And listened to him once again announce his arrival.
Because he wanted her to know he was coming. He wanted her s
haking, terrified, curled into a ball, already fearing the worst. That was the kind of man he was.
She smiled.
And this time, it was a happy expression on her face. Because now, in her right hand, she had it: the thin packet of flower food, generously included with most bouquets and exactly what she’d been looking for.
She hadn’t lied to him before. He didn’t know her. Which had been his first, and would now be his last, mistake.
Behind her, the garage door began its shaky ascent. Him dragging out the suspense as he slowly heaved it open.
No more time to wait. No more time to plan. She gripped the packet between her palms, then grabbed the nearly empty jug of antifreeze. Moving swiftly across the cracked concrete floor until she stood beneath the row of eyebrow windows. The weak light streaming above her, bathing the middle of the space in a dim glow while keeping her in shadow.
Garage door. Quarter of the way open. Now a third. A half.
She released her grip on the packet. Grabbed the antifreeze jug first, pinning it between her feet, then used both hands to press down the child-safety lid and twist. The plastic cap clattered to the floor, but the rattle of the heaving metal door covered the sound.
Two-thirds of the way open. Now three-quarters. Enough for a grown man to walk through.
She placed the antifreeze to the side. Forced herself to take the time to shake the packet, settling the crystals to the bottom. Couldn’t afford to waste any if this was to work.
He stepped into the space.
The bartender with the amazing pecs. Shirt already off. Muscles rippling in the moonlight. A beautiful physical specimen.
She should feel guilty for what she was going to do next.
But she didn’t.
She stepped forward into the dim stream of light. Her nakedness clearly exposed. Her wrists clearly bound.
He smiled, right hand already moving to the waistband of his jeans.
“You don’t know who I am,” she said clearly.
He paused, regarded her quizzically, as if she’d challenged him with complicated math.
Then . . . the bartender moved toward her.
She ripped open the plastic packet, took three quick steps forward, and tossed the contents into his face.
He reared back, coughing and blinking as the flower food hit his eyes, nose, mouth.
“What the . . .”
She grabbed the open jug of antifreeze, swirled it three times, and then . . .
A suspended heartbeat of time. He looked at her. Stared hard. And in that instant they finally saw each other. Not a ripped bartender. Not a stupid blonde. But dark heart to lost soul.
She sprayed the antifreeze straight into his face. Splashed it onto his exposed skin and the granules of potassium permanganate still clinging there.
One more heartbeat of time. Then . . .
The first tendrils of smoke. From his hair. His cheeks. His eyelashes. The man lifted his hands to his face.
Then basic chemistry took over, and the bartender’s skin burst into flame.
He screamed. He ran. He beat at his own head as if it would make a difference. He did everything but stop, drop, and roll, panic having its way.
She stood there. Not moving a muscle. Not saying a word. She watched until at last he collapsed into a pile of smoking ruin. Other sounds penetrated then. Neighbors calling out into the dark, demanding to know what was going on. The distant sounds of sirens, as apparently one of the smarter ones had already called 911.
The woman finally stepped forward. She peered down at her attacker’s remains, watched the smoky tendrils drift from his now blackened skin.
Friday night, she thought. She’d earned this.
Chapter 3
WHO IS SHE?”
“Don’t know. Neighbor over there, Kyle Petrakis, claims he found her standing over the body. Stripped naked, hands tied, face bashed.”
“She did all this with her hands tied?” Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren knelt down, studied the charred remains of their . . . victim? Perpetrator? Body was curled in a near fetal position, hands clenched over the young male’s face. A protective gesture, which, judging by the burn patterns across his head, shoulders, and face, had been too little, too late.
“Chemical fire,” the third detective spoke up. “Combine potassium permanganate with antifreeze and poof.”
D.D. ignored the third detective, glancing up at Phil instead. “So what do we know?”
“House belongs to Allen and Joyce Goulding,” her former squad mate rattled off. “Older couple, currently waiting out the winter chill in Florida. They left behind, however, their youngest son, twenty-eight-year-old Devon Goulding, who trains as a bodybuilder by day, works as a bartender by night.”
“This is Devon?” D.D. asked, gesturing to the body.
“Umm, gonna have to wait on the fingerprints for that one.”
D.D. grimaced, made the mistake of breathing through her nose, grimaced harder. “Where’s our victim turned vixen now?”
“Back of a squad car. Refused medical attention. Waiting on the feds, whom she called directly.”
“The feds?” D.D. rose to standing, voice curt. “What do you mean she personally invited the feds to our party? Who the hell is this girl?”
Detective number three did the honors: “She called the Boston field office and requested Dr. Samuel Keynes. Dialed the number off the top of her head, I might add. Would you still call it a party?” the newest member of Boston homicide asked conversationally. “Or is it more like a barbecue?”
D.D. walked away. Turned on her heel, left the body, exited the garage. In her new and improved supervisory role she could get away with such things. Or maybe it was due to her current classification as restricted duty.
The fact that detective number three had taken D.D.’s former position with her former squad—an assignment D.D. could no longer hold, given her recent injury—was no reason to shun the thirty-five-year-old recruit. No, currently D.D. held the woman’s name against her. Carol. As in Carol Manley. Sounded like an insurance agent. Or maybe a soccer mom. But definitely not a cop. No kind of serious detective went by Carol.
Of course, no kind of serious homicide unit sergeant obsessed about a new detective’s name, or was petty enough to hold it against her. Maybe.
A year ago, D.D. hadn’t worried about women named Carol. Or the future of her three-member squad. Or her own role with the BPD’s homicide unit. She lived, ate, and breathed death investigations and was a happier person for it. Until the evening she returned for a late-night analysis of a crime scene and startled the killer still lurking there. One brief altercation later, she’d toppled down a flight of stairs and suffered an avulsion fracture to her left arm. No more lifting her gun. No more lifting her small child.
For the next six months, D.D. had gotten to sit at home. Nursing her wounds, worrying about her future, and, yeah, losing her mind. But slowly and surely, as her physical therapist, Russ, had promised her, the hard work had started to pay off. Until one day she could shrug her shoulder, and another day she could slowly but surely raise her arm.
Her strength wasn’t there yet. Nor full range of motion. She couldn’t execute such things as, say, the two-handed Weaver stance for shooting. But her pain was manageable, her injury improving, and her overall state of health excellent. Enough to convince the powers that be to allow her to return under restricted duty status. Meaning she now spent more time supervising as a sergeant than engaging in hands-on investigating as a detective. She told herself she could handle it. The work was the work, and either way she was solving crimes.
Of course, she continued to engage in thrice-weekly occupational therapy sessions where she used a hand weight in lieu of her handgun and practiced the motion of unsnapping her holster, then drawing and firing over and over again. She also spent some
time on the shooting range. One-handed. Not as reliable. Not department SOP. But she had to start somewhere.
Otherwise, Phil and Neil, two of the finest detectives on the force, would forever be saddled with a rookie.
The Gouldings’ garage was a detached, single-car unit set in the back of the property. Striding forward, D.D. vacated the structure, crossed the modest backyard, and headed for the street. Sun was just coming up. A gray, chilly dawn that seemed almost anticlimactic given the current level of activity. Patrol cars were stacked up along both sides of the busy neighborhood street, as well as the ME’s vehicle and several larger, more impressive media vans.
The first responders had done an admirable job of roping off the property. From the gray-painted two-story colonial to the dilapidated rear garage, the officers had seized it all, establishing a strict perimeter of yellow crime scene tape that would make D.D.’s job that much easier. Nosy neighbors contained to the sidewalk across the street? Check. Rabid reporters confined to fifty yards away from the closest law enforcement officer? Check. And now for the trifecta . . .
D.D. discovered the woman sitting in the back of the third patrol car, shoulders shivering slightly beneath a blue BPD blanket, face staring straight ahead. A district detective sat beside her. The rear car door sat open, as if they were waiting for something or someone. Neither was saying a word.
“Margaret,” D.D. acknowledged the officer on the far side of the vehicle. This close, she realized why the vehicle door had been left ajar. Back at the crime scene, investigators had marked a bag of rotting food that had been pulled out of a trash can and torn open. The woman must’ve been at least elbow-deep in that mess, given the scent of rancid meat and sour milk wafting from her skin, let alone the streaks of slime marring her cheeks and mucking her hair.
“D.D.,” the district detective replied stoically. “Heard you were back. Congrats.”
“Thanks.” D.D.’s gaze remained focused on the woman. The alleged killer. The alleged victim. The girl appeared young. Mid- to late twenties would be D.D.’s guess. With shoulder-length blond hair and delicate features that would probably be found attractive, if not for the assortment of bruises, smatters of blood, and smears of rot. The girl didn’t look at her, but continued to focus on the back of the driver’s seat.