Divine Intervention (17 page)

Techno dance music, Jasi recognized.

Glancing from the singer on the screen to the young girl beside him, Brandon's eyes widened. "You're
that
Jessica Marie?"

Jasi studied the music video.

Brandon was right. The singer in the video was none other than Jessica Marie Taranko.
Jessica Marie
―to her fans. Now Jasi understood how a girl her age could afford to buy a house like this one.

Jessica Marie was a singing sensation in North America and Europe. At nineteen years old, she had gone further than any other pop star. She had taken off in 2007, replacing Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera.

"My sister, Sierra, loves your music," Brandon remarked. "I got her your
Good Girl
MD for her birthday. By the way, I'm Brandon Walsh. I'm with Arson Investigations."

The singer flopped onto the leather sofa, looked up at him and patted the space beside her. "Hope your sister liked
Good Girl
."

Jasi gritted her teeth when Brandon sat down beside the girl. Time to show him who's in charge, she thought angrily. Shaking her head in disdain, she activated her data-com, recorded a brief introduction and slapped it on the table between them.

"Miss…um, Jessica," she said, taking the seat across from the girl. "We're here about Charlotte Foreman's murder."

The singer nodded, pulling her legs up underneath her and leaning her knees against Brandon's thigh.

Jasi tried to curb her temper and waited for him to move away.

Instead, he shrugged as if to say,
What can I do?

"Jessica, tell us what happened the night of the fire," Jasi said abruptly.

"I told the police everything I remember. Nothing's changed. I got home early that day. I just finished cutting a new single,
Living Dangerous
, and I was, like, exhausted. So I came home and started making supper. A few minutes later I smelled smoke. I thought I was, like, burning the chicken at first."

Jessica gave Brandon a wry smile. "Then I realized the smoke was coming from outside. When I went out onto my deck, I could see Mrs. Foreman's shed on fire."

"What'd you do?" Jasi asked.

Jessica briefly closed her eyes. "I called 911. Then I waited. I thought it was just her shed." The girl's voice filled with remorse and her eyes teared. "I had no idea that poor woman and that little girl were inside."

Brandon reached over and patted Jessica's arm. "There was no way for you to know."

Resisting a tug of jealousy, Jasi pulled a clean tissue from her bag and pressed it into the girl's hand. "Even if you had known, Jessica, there's nothing you could have done to save them."

"I almost sold my house after that," the singer admitted hesitantly.

"Because you didn't feel safe?" Jasi asked.

"I thought that whoever had killed Mrs. Foreman might, like, come back here," the girl confessed. "You know, return to the scene of the crime?"

Jasi could understand the girl's fear. Jessica's theory of the killer returning wasn't
that
farfetched. It was a documented fact that most murderers returned to the scene so that they could relive the crime. Sometimes they slipped into the crowds of curious bystanders who watched while the crime scene was processed.

"That's why the press didn't mention me," Jessica murmured. "I offered them interviews in return for keeping my name out of the papers."

"So that whoever killed Charlotte Foreman wouldn't see you as a threat," Brandon guessed.

The girl stood up suddenly, hugging her arms close.

Then she flicked her head toward the backyard.

"I haven't been able to go out back. You know―that was, like, the second fire here in one month."

Jasi glanced at Brandon. "Two fires in May?"

"Uh-huh. Some kids set fire to a fence a couple of houses down."

"Did the police catch them?"

"Yeah, but then a couple of weeks later…" Jessica's voice trailed away as she nudged her head in the direction of the Foreman's backyard.

"We'll keep your name out of this," Jasi found herself promising.

She felt sorry for the young singer. Despite the sophisticated security system, the girl felt uneasy in her own home. Jessica Marie Taranko was as much a victim now as the three arson victims.

Collateral damage to a murderer.

"The night of the fire, when you looked outside," Brandon said. "Did you see anything
suspicious? Someone in the yard…a car driving away?"

The girl shook her head. "Since that night I've tried to remember everything. The only thing I saw was the fire and the firefighters. That's it. Sorry."

Jasi leaned over and picked up her data-com.

"Voice record off."

She cleared her throat, indicating that it was time to leave and Brandon followed her. Jessica trailed behind them, humming softly.

"Hey!" the singer hollered. "Your sister―how old is she?"

"Seventeen," Brandon answered.

"Here, give her this." The girl skipped forward and tucked a cellophane-wrapped MD into Brandon's palm. "It's my latest single."

"I'm sure Sierra will love it."

Jasi gave the girl a nod. "Thanks for your time, Jessica."

"Agent McLellan!" the singer blurted. She gripped Jasi's arm tightly. "Don't let him get away!"

Jasi stiffened, then peered at Brandon. He had his back to her and was waiting at the bottom of the steps.

Don't let him get away?

Nervous, she glanced back at Jessica Taranko, about to ask the girl what she meant.

Then it hit her.

The singer was referring to the arsonist.

"Don't worry," Jasi assured her. "We'll get him."

The girl disappeared into the house, and the groan of locks engaging echoed loudly while Jasi made her way down the steps.

"You'll keep your promise," Brandon said quietly.

Jasi's eyes snared his. "Damn right I will!"

Brandon gawked at her, wanting to say something more. She froze when his heated gaze drifted to her mouth.

Neither of them said a word.

Then her data-com beeped.

Fumbling for it, Jasi stammered, "Y-yeah?"

"I've got nothing with the neighbors," Natassia's voice cut in. "One woman spotted a cable van but that checks out. Repairs on the opposite side of the street left the cable down."

"What about the installer?" Brandon interrupted. "He see anything?"

"Nothing. He was inside the house the entire time, according to the homeowners."

"Okay, Natassia," Jasi said. "Meet us in front of the house. I'm going in."

When she reached the sidewalk edging the Foreman house, Jasi took a hit of
OxyBlast
and waited patiently next to the
For Sale
sign on the lawn.

Natassia arrived five minutes later. "I ran. Didn't want you going in alone."

Jasi noticed Brandon's eyebrow wing up.

Natassia grinned, catching Brandon's eye.

"I know you're here, Chief Walsh, but Jasi doesn't go on scene without me."

Jasi saw Brandon shrug, then head for the backyard.

"Voice record on!" she barked, hurrying after him.

The Foreman's backyard was like everyone else's. Except it was devoid of life. In the shadows, a tire swing hung from a tree, motionless. Weedy flowerpots and a picnic table rested on a concrete base. In the far right corner an overgrown garden wilted in abandonment.

The left corner of the yard was a different story. An empty blackened pad, where the shed had been, reminded Jasi that two people had died here. Most of the loose wood had been cleared, but enough residue remained behind to trigger her brain.

"Let's do it."

Brandon hesitated. "Should I wait here?"

Jasi examined him thoughtfully, then released a slow breath and gestured for him to follow.

Natassia raised one eyebrow, surprised.

"It's okay," Jasi assured her, clipping on the nosepiece. Then she glanced at the shed pad. "It's
shake 'n bake
time."

Taking a few steps forward, she felt the irresistible draw of psychic energy beckoning her closer.

Within two minutes, she was in.

And
inside
the mind of a serial killer.

15

The pungent odor of death, of scorching flesh, hung heavily in the humid night air. Inhaling slowly, savoring every delicate nuance of human scent, I raised my hood-covered face to the stormy heavens, arms outstretched in glory. Turning slowly, I closed my eyes while thunderous clouds rolled and churned above me.

Death was such a release.

How could the old woman have been so blind, so easily manipulated?

I knew how. She had been arrogant, secure in her own little life. She had preyed upon the innocent, stalking them with her own evil. And all the while, I had carefully stalked her.

The hunter had become the hunted.

Peering through night-vision binoculars, I had recorded her movements, her every gesture and habit. I had witnessed her erratic behavior and seen her lash out violently at the children entrusted in her care.

Shrouded in darkness inside the musty utility shed, I waited patiently, calming my rapidly beating heart while I checked out my hiding place. Cobwebs hung from the corner of the door and a sliver of sunlight captured a bulbous black spider effortlessly spinning its web.

When my eyesight finally adjusted to the dark, I noticed an assortment of rusted garden tools scattered haphazardly across the surface of the wooden workbench. Along the plank-board wall behind my head, a variety of shovels, brooms and
hedge clippers
hung suspended from antique iron hooks. I shuddered when I saw the sharpened metal ends.

I wondered how long I would have to wait until I hooked her.

Blindly searching the shelves, I came across the large roll of yellow rope.

How long before she came for a piece of that?

I was answered by the sound of the screen door squeaking rebelliously. Then I heard her footsteps coming closer and I knew that my wait was over.

When the woman opened the door to the shed and stepped inside, I relished the startled expression on her face. Without a second thought, I smashed a heavy shovel into the side of her head. I watched her eyes flicker with shock while blood seeped from her scalp.

Then I waited in silence while she collapsed to the floor.

"Please!" the old woman begged pitifully when she regained consciousness.

With one hand raised to protect her bloodied face, she scrambled along the floor of the shed, searching for escape, clawing at the rough cedar planks below her.

"Please, let me go! I've done nothing!"

Crouching down with a piece of yellow rope grasped firmly between my hands, I stared at her. She reminded me of a deer, caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

Removing the hood from my head, I smiled.

Her eyes widened with recognition and terror.

I carefully tied her feet together and pushed her to a sitting position. Then I wrapped the stiff rope around her neck. Yanking her toward the wooden workbench, I heard her gasping for air, her short legs jerking spasmodically beneath her.

I leaned down and asked her one important question.

With a glimmer of hope in her terrified eyes, she whispered the answer in a small voice.

"No…man. No…man wash―"

"Nana?" a child's voice called from outside the utility shed.

I held my breath and prayed that the child would go away, but when the door opened and a small face peered inside, I knew that I had no other choice.

Grabbing the little girl's arm, I hauled her into the shed.

"You should have stayed inside the house. Now look what you're making me do, you naughty girl."

The child whimpered softly while I tied her tightly to the semi-conscious woman. And then I left them, trussed up like animals, while I made the final preparations.

Outside in the dark stormy night, I inhaled the seductive scent of gasoline and watched the flames creep slowly over the small shed, encompassing it in scorching heat. A crack of thunder echoed overhead and a spear of lightning streaked across the sky.