Be Afraid (28 page)

Rick got the call just after lunch. A fire in the Germantown neighborhood. Framed, one-level home, burned to the ground. Neighbors had reported the flames just after ten and had called the fire department but the fire had been too hot and too fast and the home had turned to cinders in a matter of an hour.

He arrived at the scene to the fresh scent of cinder and ash. Yellow crime-scene tape roped off the house and yard and corralled a large group of onlookers. The media van was parking, but instead of waiting for a barrage of questions, he strode under the tape as he pulled on a set of rubber gloves.

Jake Bishop moved toward him, a dark scowl on his face. “We’ve another body.”

Rick rubbed the back of his neck, hoping to soften the tension. “Any evidence to help us identify the victim?”

“No, but the body was found in the area of the house that would have been the bedroom.”

“Anything to connect this death to Diane Smith?”

“Don’t even know if the victim is female at this point. There’s not much left.”

But that in itself was a connection. Fire had obliterated the last crime scene. “Jonas Tuttle could not have killed this woman.”

“No.” He reached for his notebook.

Inspector Murphy strode toward them, his thick fireman’s jacket open. His Nashville Fire T-shirt was soaked in sweat. His head cocked a bit to the right as if it too were barely hanging on.

Rick stuck out his hand. “Inspector Murphy.”

Murphy clasped his hand and Bishop’s. He nodded toward the charred remains behind him. “I thought you two found the guy who set the last blaze.”

“We thought we did too,” Rick said. “Lots of evidence linking him to the murder.” And yet, here they stood inhaling cinder and smoke, waiting for timbers to cool so another body burned beyond recognition could be removed.

Murphy’s radio on his jacket squawked a request and he silenced it with the flick of a button. “Looks like arson.”

“The house burned fast like the other one?” Rick asked.

Murphy glanced back at the burned remains, staring as if in a silent communication. “It did. It went up very quickly.”

“Same accelerant?” Rick asked.

“As a matter of fact, I just got word back on the accelerant used in the first fire. Tests confirmed it was a mixture of diesel and a product called Thermite, a pyrotechnic mixture. Burns fast and hot. If I had to guess on this fire, I’d say the same cocktail.”

Bishop rested his hands on his hips. “Whoever set this fire wanted to make sure there wasn’t much left behind.”

Murphy nodded his gaze appreciatively. “Whoever set the blaze knew what the hell he was doing. This isn’t this firebug’s first rodeo. And seeing as we’ve ruled out your dead suspect, I’d say look for a guy with a history of arson. His earlier fires might not be as big or as successful as this one but, somewhere along the way, he got a taste for fire.”

The haystack of suspects might have shrunk but they were still searching for a needle. They thanked Inspector Murphy and he moved back toward the ruins.

“House is owned by Nancy Jones, age thirty-four,” Bishop said.

“Anyone seen Nancy lately?”

Bishop shrugged. “The rumblings I heard from the crowd say no, but I’ve not had time to ask.”

Rick glanced at the collection of neighbors, many dressed in sweats or casual clothes. Time to start searching for the needle. “I’ll tackle the neighbors.”

“You take the left side and I’ll take the right,” Bishop offered. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and our firebug stuck around to see the show.”

Arsonists often lingered, hoping to get a glimpse of the mayhem their fires created. The aftermath was often as thrilling as the flames. “Let’s hope.”

Rick scanned the faces of the crowd. No one stuck out but that didn’t mean much. He moved to the crowd of onlookers, wondering if the killer had mingled among them.

He unhooked his badge from his belt. “Who lives around this house? Who knows the occupant?”

A murmur rolled over the crowd before two people, a man and a woman, spoke up. The woman had short, sandy-brown hair, and wore thick Elvis Costello glasses and a yoga hoodie and tights. Beside her stood a man with dark hair and a square jaw covered with salt-and-pepper stubble. Rick waved both down past the crowd. He ducked under the tape and led them a few more paces down the sidewalk.

He looked at the man first. “Your name?”

“Randy Kincaid. “I live in the house behind Nancy Jones’s house.”

“You know Nancy Jones?”

He rubbed the stubble with long fingers. “Well enough. We’ve been neighbors for a couple of years.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Nice. Kept her lawn in good shape and had done some good renovation projects in the last year that increased the value of her house.”

Another renovation project. “Know much about the woman?”

“Not much.”

“Issues, problems?”

“None that I knew of. Why’re you asking these questions? It was just a fire.”

Rick ignored the question. In a neighborhood filled with young, working professionals, most were too busy to notice the day-to-day stuff. “What did she do for a living?”

“She works in real estate, I think. She’s coming and going all the time. But like I said, I don’t see her much. Today is my day off. Normally, I’m never home.”

“You have much interaction with Nancy?”

“Just to wave and smile on the rare times we saw each other.” The medical examiner’s car pulled up and the man’s frown deepened.

“Do you think Nancy was in the house?” The question came from the woman, who folded her arms over her chest and hunched forward slightly.

“I don’t know much at this point.” He tossed her a smile meant to be friendly but he suspected it fell short. “What’s your name?”

The woman shoved her fingers through her hair. “My name is Linda Nelson. I live on the other side of Nancy. And she wasn’t dating anyone as far as I knew. She worked hard. It was all about the job.”

“How well did you know Nancy?”

“Nancy and I were good friends. We just went out for drinks last week.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She had a boyfriend but they broke up last year. In fact, he broke up with her. She works as a manager in a real estate firm. She liked her job and her boss liked her.” She glanced back toward the ruins. “I smell fuel. That fire wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“I don’t know. Nancy have anyone bothering her lately?”

“No. Not really. I mean she did text me yesterday about a guy at the corner package-delivery office. Said the guy cut in front of her and was a real jerk. She couldn’t believe it. Nancy, being Nancy, told him where to get off.”

“Did she ever see this guy before?”

“She didn’t give me the impression she had. She’d have told me if someone was hanging around or stalking her.”

“What delivery office does she use?”

“Normally, she goes to the one on Church Street. It has later hours and she’s often racing to make it there before it closes. She sends packages to her brother. He’s in the military.”

“You saw no unusual people around here last night?”

“No, Nancy would have said something if she thought she had a problem.”

Diane Smith had not been killed in her own home so it was possible that whoever had died here was not Nancy. “Do you have contact information for Nancy?”

“Yeah, sure.” She dug a cell from her back pocket. “Want me to call her?”

“Yeah.”

She hit
SEND
, put the phone on speaker so they both could hear it ring. On the fifth ring it went to voice mail. Nancy had a soft, pleasant voice.

Rick scribbled down her number. “Did Nancy ever mention a woman named Diane Smith?”

“Not that I remember.”

Doubtful he’d find a connection this easily to the other victim, but it was worth a shot. “How long has she been in the neighborhood?”

“Six years,” Nelson said. “She’d talked about moving but decided against it because it’s too expensive right now. She’d just sold her mother’s house and moved her into an old folks’ home. The process took it out of her and her mother died just a few months ago. That’s why she opted to do the renovation work instead. Redid the bathrooms.”

“Who did the work?”

“I’ve no idea but she liked the work he’d done.” Linda stared at the ruined house. “It was all normal twelve hours ago. All the work and love she’d put into the house was really showing and now it’s destroyed.”

Whoever had done this had planned carefully. It would take planning to buy the diesel and if Thermite had also been used, it would take more time to get that. Rick handed his card to the neighbor. “Call me if you think of anything.”

Rick returned to his office to find the Thompson murder case files on his desk. Dusty and faded with age, the cases took up five file boxes that the clerk had stacked around his desk. Curious, he moved to the top box, flipped off the lid, and opened the first file. Investigating officers were Buddy Morgan and KC Kelly. He shook his head, staring at his father’s bold handwriting. Buddy Morgan, the legend. Closed more murder cases than anyone else in the history of Nashville homicide.

Whereas his older brother, Deke, had tried to live up to the legend, Rick had never suffered under such pressure. He wanted to close cases, be the best cop he could be, but he’d had no desire to chase Buddy’s legend.

He glanced at the black-and-white forensic photos of the Thompson house. A brick Tudor-style home, it was ringed with manicured shrubs and adorned with meticulous beds. One glance told him it was pure, old Tennessee money. He read Buddy’s detailed description of the father, Ralph Thompson. A judge in family court, Judge Thompson had a reputation for toughness and fairness. He’d made a fair amount of enemies during his ten years on the bench and when the cops realized the five-year-old daughter, Jennifer, was missing they’d assumed the killing and kidnapping were connected to the job. But initial searches didn’t land them any solid suspects. A friend of the family had mentioned Ronnie’s name to the police. He’d done some handiwork for them months earlier and had spoken about little Jennifer. She’d reminded him of his sister.

Judging by the press-clipping file Buddy had saved, the media attention had been huge. Susan Martinez was quoted in quite a few articles and cited as the leading television journalist on the story. That explained her connecting the dots in the case so quickly. He reached a section with family photos. The picture of Jenna or Jennifer was that of a dark-haired little girl with a round face, bright green eyes, and a wide smile. Just like the one in the missing persons file.

A smile tugged the edges of his lips. She’d been a cute little thing and the idea of Ronnie killing her family, and grabbing and locking her in a closet for nine days set a cauldron of anger simmering in his belly. He turned the picture over and shifted his gaze to Jenna’s older sister, Sara.

If Rick could have imagined Jenna at age sixteen she would have looked like Sara. Same hair, same smile, same dimple in the chin. If Sara had lived, he imagined she’d have looked a great deal like Jenna today.

More reading and he discovered that the medical examiner had reported that Sara had had intercourse within an hour of her death. The doctor had been unable to determine if it was forcible or consensual. The cops had found Ronnie in his apartment, dead from an overdose. Another overdose.

As he read about the reports of finding Jenna in the closet, his anger fired. He sat back in his chair, rolling his head from side to side and channeling distance and objectivity. “Get a grip.”

Another glance at the images tightened his belly. He closed the file. He’d read through dozens of missing children’s files in the last few days and managed to stomach the carnage. But Jenna’s case cut deep.

He wanted to quit reading.

But he didn’t.

The elaborate chess set revealed a game in play. Madness flexed stiff fingers and moved a bishop to knock out another pawn. Another worthless player gone, off the board for good. The bishop was now within striking distance of the white queen.

The white queen stood tall and straight, taunting all who saw her. “So much like Sara.”

Sara had been a selfish girl, tossing back another’s love as if it were garbage. The decision to kill her had come easily, but the planning of the deed had taken time. And so Ronnie had been recruited. That simple boy who’d worked in the school and had always had a thing for sweet Sara. Ronnie was the windup doll easily set on a path of destruction.

But Ronnie had not been as predictable as anticipated. Don’t take your finger off the player until you are very certain of the next move. Ronnie had gone against orders. He’d not only failed to set fire to the house but he also had not killed the entire family. He’d taken Jennifer and kept her for himself.

Ronnie had sworn he’d killed the girl and he’d been so convincing that believing him had been easy. Shoving the needle in Ronnie’s arm had been effortless. The fool had welcomed the promised relief. Ronnie’s temporary reprieve from stress had been permanent and he’d taken to the grave a terrible secret: the girl lived.

Long fingers wrapped around the queen and squeezed. Today’s scene had nearly gone sideways. Ford had approached Nancy early at the delivery office and caused a scene. The little puppet had taken matters into his own hands and grabbed her early. He’d said they’d not made a sound in the hours he held her in her own home but there was no way of telling. Not good. Not good at all.

A measure of control had returned by the end of the scene but then it had been shattered by the woman’s defiance. Her eyes blazed until the very last moment life had left her body.

Tracing the face of the queen, he turned his thoughts back to Jenna. Diane’s death had brought short-lived pleasure. Nancy’s had brought even less pleasure. Already the thrill of that kill was fading, leaving Madness frustrated. Why couldn’t this hunger be satisfied?

“Jenna, like Sara, will satisfy me.”

“You’ve said that before. You’re out of control. You don’t know how to stop anymore. Soon the cops are going to be here.”

“I can stop. After Jenna.”
Madness raised a trembling glass to parted lips. The idea of prison, capture, ruin, deeply unsettled Madness.
“Yes, give me Jenna and I will be happy.”