Count to Ten (34 page)

Aidan stood up. “I’ll check. Murphy, you fill them in on what we found.”

“We found a neighbor who remembers seeing a guy -meeting White’s description with Adler last night,” Murphy said. “He was helping her up the stairs to her apartment.”

“That’s consistent with White’s story. The bartender says she drank three beers. Her car was still at the bar. We knew that already. What else?” Mia said impatiently.

Murphy shook his head. “Testy today. While we were going door to door, a woman came screaming at us, saying someone had stolen her car. Ten-year-old Honda.”

“His getaway car,” Reed said.

“But it gets better.” Murphy’s brows went up. “It had GPS. Installed aftermarket.”

Mia sat up. “No way. He probably picked an old car thinking it wouldn’t have GPS. So where did you find it?” she demanded.

“Parked in a 7-Eleven lot near Chicago and Wessex.”

Reed frowned. “Wait.” He pulled the list of White’s bank transactions from the pile of paper in front of him. “That’s a block from where he wrote some of his checks to ‘Cash.’”

Mia’s grin was Cheshire-cat slow. “It’s where he lives. The bastard murdered two women then drove to his neighborhood, probably walked home and went to sleep.”

Spinnelli stood up. “I’ll get uniforms canvassing that area with pictures of White.”

“We can go to the press,” Westphalen said and Mia gave an exaggerated wince.

“Do we have to?” she whined.

Spinnelli shot her an understanding look. “It’s the most direct way.”

“Not Wheaton or Carmichael, okay? How about just to Lynn Pope? We like her.”

“Sorry, Mia. This one I’d have to give to all the networks. But I’ll try to avoid Miss Wheaton.” He left to organize the search.

“Damn.” Mia turned to Westphalen. “Did you talk to Manny today?”

“I did.”

“Thompson went to see Manny last night. Right before he called me. A few hours before he died.”

Westphalen took off his glasses and polished them. “That makes sense. He said that his doctor had told him not to talk to anybody. Not to ‘cops, lawyers, or shrinks.’”

“So he didn’t talk to you?” Reed asked.

“Not a lot, no. He was genuinely terrified, but not of Thompson. He did tell me that cutting out the articles wasn’t his idea. That they were given to him, but he wouldn’t say how or by whom. I asked him where he got the matches, and he claimed he didn’t take them, that they’d been planted there. When I asked why someone would do that to him, he shut up. Didn’t say another word, no matter how I pried.”

Mia’s brows furrowed. “Is he paranoid?”

“Hard to say without more observation. I will say that he’s every bit as fascinated with fire as you indicated, -Lieutenant. Even when he wouldn’t speak, his eyes became glazed over when I showed him video of a burning house. It was like he couldn’t control himself. I think that if he’d known the matches were in his room that he wouldn’t have been able to resist using them. Do you know exactly where they were found?”

Reed was annoyed. Like Manny couldn’t control himself. The kid liked fire. The kid made bad choices. The shrink was showing his true colors. And because he was so annoyed, he bit his tongue and said nothing.

“Secrest said they found them in the toe of his high-tops,” Mia answered.

Westphalen nodded. “Not exactly the most discreet place to hide something.”

She looked perplexed. “Are you saying you believe somebody actually planted matches in his shoes? Why would somebody do that?”

“I don’t know. You’re the detective. Your lieutenant is very annoyed with me, Mia.”

Reed kept his voice calm. “Yes, I am.”

“Why?” Westphalen asked.

Reed controlled the exhale that would have been a frustrated huff. “Manny Rodriguez is not a radio-controlled hypno-zombie,” he replied. “He’s a kid who’s made some bad choices. Every time he lit a match, he knew it was wrong and yet he chose to do it anyway. Maybe he didn’t steal those matches. I don’t know. But to suggest that using them would be out of his control is not only ludicrous, it’s dangerous.”

Westphalen’s amusement had fled. “I agree.”

Reed’s eyes narrowed, not trusting the sudden capitulation. “You’re setting me up.”

One side of Westphalen’s mouth lifted. “No, I’m not. Really. Reed, I don’t believe that anybody’s decision to break the law makes them less accountable. They should still be punished. But their ability to control their impulses is sometimes hampered.”

“By upbringing,” Reed said flatly.

“Among other things.” Westphalen studied him. “You don’t buy that, either.”

“No, I don’t.”

“And you’re not going to tell me why.”

Reed relaxed his face, made his mouth smile. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“I think it matters a great deal,” Westphalen murmured. “What I’d be looking for now is Devin White’s trigger. What made him start now? Why? We can assume Brooke was retaliation, but what role did the other victims play in his life to make him hate them so?”

Mia sighed. “So we’re back to the files.”

Westphalen smiled at her paternally. “I’d say so. Call me if you need me.”

Mia watched him go, then turned to Reed, questions in her eyes. But she left them unasked. “Let’s go talk to Manny, then back to the files.”

Thursday, November 30, 3:45 P.M.

Reed waited until the boy was seated across from him. Mia was standing behind the glass, watching. “Hi, Manny.”

The boy said nothing.

“I would have come to see you earlier today, but we’ve been very busy.” Nothing.

“It started at four this morning when Detective Mitchell and I were called to the scene of this really big apartment fire.” Manny’s chin stayed stoically rigid, but his eyes flickered. “Big flames, Manny. Lit up the whole sky.”

He paused, let the boy get his salivation under control. “Miss Adler is dead.”

Manny’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Your English teacher is dead. She lived in the apartment that was set on fire.”

Manny’s eyes dropped to the table. “I didn’t do it.”

“I know.”

Manny looked up. “I didn’t want her to die.”

“I know.”

He sat there for a moment, just breathing. “I’m not going to talk to you.”

“Manny.” He waited until he had the boy’s attention. “Dr. Thompson is dead.”

Manny paled, shock flattening his face. “No. You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I saw his body myself. His throat had been slit.”

Manny flinched. “No.”

He slid Thompson’s morgue photo across the table to Manny. “See for yourself.”

Manny wouldn’t look. “Take it away. Fuck you, take it away.” The last was a sob.

Reed slid it back and turned it facedown. “We know who did it.”

Doubt flickered in his eyes. “I’m not talking to you. I’ll end up like Thompson.”

“We know it was Mr. White.”

Manny slowly met his eyes. “Then why do you need to talk to me?”

“Dr. Thompson called Detective Mitchell right after he left here last night. He said it was urgent. He then called Mr. White. A few hours later he was dead. We want to know what you told him that he needed to tell us.”

“You don’t have White.”

Reed shook his head. “No. And we may not unless you’re straight with us.”

Manny shook his head. “Forget it.”

“Okay. Then about the matches. How do you think they ended up in your shoe?”

Manny’s expression soured. “You won’t believe me anyway.”

“How can I? You haven’t told me anything. Were the shoes in your room all the time?”

The kid was considering the question. “No,” he finally said. “I had them with me all that day. It was my group’s day to use the gym.”

“When did you use the gym?”

“After lunch.” He sat back. “That’s all I’m gonna say. Let me go back to my cell.”

“Manny, White can’t hurt you in here.”

Manny’s lips curved. “Sure he can.”

Thursday, November 30, 4:45 P.M.

“You rang?” Mia asked as she and Solliday stopped at Aidan’s desk.

Aidan looked up. “I did. I called the registrar’s office at White’s university in Delaware, but they were gone for the day—they’re an hour ahead of us. But I did get in touch with the secretary in the education department. Very helpful lady.”

Mia sat on the edge of his desk. “What did the nice lady say?”

Aidan handed her a black-and-white photo on plain paper. “She faxed this twenty minutes ago. It’s a picture from a department newsletter, taken at a university golf benefit last year. She circled Devin White. It’s grainy but you can see his face.”

Solliday looked over her shoulder, so close that if she turned her head she could kiss him. The longer the day dragged on, the more she was anticipating the evening. But they’d made a deal and Aidan was watching her intently.

“It’s close, isn’t it?” Solliday murmured. “Same height, same coloring.” He straightened and she finally drew a breath.

“But not the man we talked to this morning,” she said. “The face is wrong. But most people only notice size and coloring unless they’re really looking. He picked a good ID to steal. I’m betting the real Devin White is dead. Did the secretary have any numbers for his family or contacts or anything?”

“Said he’d left his family section blank. She didn’t think he had any relatives living. His mother was dead and he’d never known his father.”

“Well, did the helpful lady give any more helpful information?”

“She said that Devin was one of her favorites,” Aidan said. “That he’d promised to call her when he got settled. But he never did and she assumed he’d gotten busy in his new life. He’d been headed from Delaware to Chicago for a job interview, but he was planning to stop in Atlantic City for a few days. That would have been early last June.”

Energy started to percolate through her veins. “We can check the hotels, see if White stayed at any of them.”

“Already started,” Aidan said and handed them each a sheet of paper. “These are the main hotels in Atlantic City. If we split it up, we can get through them faster.”

Mia took the paper to her own desk, then stopped with a frown. A video-sized brown padded envelope lay on top of the stack of Burnette’s files. In block letters it was addressed to her. There was no return address. “What’s this?”

Aidan looked over and slowly came to his feet. “I don’t know. It wasn’t there when I went to the fax machine earlier. We could ask Stacy.”

Mia pulled on a pair of gloves. “We saw her leaving when we came in.” She shook the video from the envelope. -Solliday still had the TV/VCR on his desk, so she slid it in.

Holly Wheaton’s face appeared, sad and grave. “In light of the recent, tragic murder of the child of a local police officer, we wanted to take a look at the toll police work takes on their families. Often they pay a high price for their family’s public service. Some, like Caitlin Burnette, are targets of revenge for their parents’ stand against crime.”

“Bitch,” Mia muttered. “Using Roger Burnette’s suffering for her damn ratings.”

“More,” Wheaton continued soberly, “find the expectations of being the child of a cop too great to handle and go the other way.” The camera panned back and Mia felt her stomach simply drop. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Solliday gripped her arm and pushed her into a chair.

His hands covered her shoulders and shook gently. “Breathe, Mia.”

She covered her mouth with her trembling hand. “Oh my God.”

Wheaton gestured to the brick building behind her. “This is the Hart Women’s Correctional Facility. Sentenced here are women who’ve committed crimes from drug possession all the way up to murder. Sentenced here are women from all walks of life, from all kinds of families.” The camera zoomed to Wheaton’s pained expression. “Even families of cops. One such inmate is Kelsey Mitchell.”

“What is this?” Spinnelli demanded from behind them. “Oh God. Mia.”

She waved him to quiet as Kelsey’s arrest photo filled the screen. Kelsey looked haggard, old, strung out from drugs. “She was only nineteen,” Mia whispered.

“Kelsey Mitchell is serving a twenty-five-year sentence for armed robbery. She’s both the daughter and sister of a cop. Her father died recently, but her sister, Detective Mia Mitchell, is a decorated homicide detective, and ironically, is responsible for several women being detained in the very same cell block as her sister.”

“They’re going to kill her.” Mia could barely hear her own voice. “They’re going to kill Kelsey.” She lunged to her feet, her heart beating wildly. “She can’t show this tape. This is a damn threat. She wants her damn story and she doesn’t care who gets hurt.”

“I know.” Spinnelli ejected the tape. “I’m going to call Wheaton’s producer right now. Try to calm down, Mia.” He headed back to his office, his expression grim.

Mia reached for Solliday’s phone. “I’m going to call that fucking bitch myself.”