Senseless (3 page)
Eva had driven halfway down the second block stuffed with one-story ranchers when she saw the distant flashing lights of fire trucks. As she drove closer, she realized yellow fire engines and cop cars crowded into the end of the shelter’s cul-de-sac. She veered away from the deadend scene and drove down a parallel residential road. Parking, she got out and cut between the yards that separated the streets.
Large floodlights, set up by the fire department, shone on the shelter. The unnatural light cast an eerie glow on the two-story frame house reduced by fire to smoking timbers. Even though the crews had contained the blaze Eva could still feel the residual heat burning her face.
Fire engines and dozens of cop cars surrounded the building, their bright red and blue lights flashing in the dark.
Eva’s head spun as the old memories of another fire rose up inside her and coiled around her chest. She could barely breathe and for a moment wanted nothing more than to bolt. Instead, she held her ground, shoving trembling hands through long black hair. She scanned the crowd for anyone that she recognized. Sally managed the shelter but she was nowhere to be found. And Rhonda, the evening manager, wasn’t anywhere in sight.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
Her mind tripped to the people who were to have spent the night in the shelter. Tony. Pam. Luna. She kept hoping she’d see them next to one of the EMS trucks, huddled safely under a blanket. But she didn’t see anyone.
She hugged her arms around her chest, wanting to rush forward under the yellow crime tape and ask the cops about the building occupants, but she didn’t. Since she’d gotten out of prison six months ago, she avoided the cops. Cops translated into trouble and she’d sworn never again to trust a cop or return to prison.
But her friends. God, she had to find out something.
Tucking her head low, she moved toward the edge of the growing crowd of onlookers mesmerized by the bright red flames. The heat would be so hot now that it could sear lungs and melt flesh.
Eva glanced toward an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses and a Steelers sweatshirt that hugged a rounded belly. “Hey, you know what happened?”
The man shook his head. “Can’t say. I was watching
The Price is Right
when I heard the sirens. I came out to look and saw the house in flames.” He nodded his head east. “I live a block and a half away but could see the light of the flames as clear as day.”
She nearly choked on the lump of tension in her throat. “You don’t know how it started?”
“Nope.”
As the cop lights flashed, she resisted the urge to run. “Anyone know anything?”
“Couldn’t say.”
Emotion shortened her temper. “They bring anyone out? I mean from the shelter.”
“Not that I’ve seen. The firemen just got the flames contained enough to get close to the building. There might be people around the back side.”
“Thanks.”
Eva hugged her arms around her chest and moved through the crowd, listening and collecting any bits of information that would tell her what had happened.
“Said it started just after seven.”
“Heard an explosion. Those old gas heaters are trouble.”
“Odd folks came and went from that place. Always knew that place was nothing but trouble. But looks like they brought in the big guns cop-wise. They’re taking this seriously.”
Being near so many cops left her edgy and worried. Goons like Radford could be managed whereas cops equaled to real trouble. She shoved out a breath and buried her emotions down deep inside. Prison had taught her that showing true fear not only showed weakness but also provided leverage for your enemies.
She focused on the fire. Who could have done this? Sally understood trouble often followed her residents and she was careful to keep the peace. They had code words. Security systems. Eva admired Sally’s careful planning.
Her gaze skimmed the crowd of onlookers who looked shocked and terrified. Their sadness magnified her fears. As she turned to leave, her gaze settled on a lone figure standing just inside the yellow tape. His back was rigid, his arms folded over his chest. He wasn’t weeping, whispering or afraid to look at the destruction. In fact, he glared at the dying embers with defiance.
Taller than most around him, this man had broad shoulders and a battlelike stance suited to an ancient warrior more than a modern-day man. When he turned slightly, the fire department’s floodlights caught his profile. His chin was covered with dark stubble and jutted forward, as if anger chewed at his insides. Dark hair teased the edge of his collar and begged for a trim.
This one was a pit bull who gave off a big-time cop vibe. She’d bet money that nothing stood between him and a closed case.
A shiver crept up her back and coiled around her throat, choking the breath from her lungs. Cops determined to close a case a decade ago had stolen ten years of her life.
Just tell us you killed him, Eva. Just tell us …
As she retreated, the cop turned as if guided by radar. His gaze locked on her like a hunter would a deer. She froze, refusing to show fear, all the while watching closely for any sign of trouble.
Eva swallowed. Her skin tingled and the muscles at the base of her spine bunched painfully. Not good. Not good at all. Smart ex-cons stayed off all cops’ radars, especially at a crime scene.
It had been a mistake to linger. She didn’t want to be noticed by anyone, especially a pit-bull cop. Carefully, Eva kept her expressions neutral as she slowly shifted her gaze away from his. She pretended to smile at something the man next to her said and made a nonsensical comment. Then, as if she were just another gal out for an evening stroll, she melted into the crowd.
Her muscles screamed:
Run, hide!
But she didn’t.
Experience had taught her that even the innocent looked guilty when they ran.
Monday, April 3, 10:20 P.M.
Alexandria City homicide detective Deacon Garrison spotted the woman easing toward the back of the crowd. He could see she was short, slim like a boy, and had thick, long dark hair that skimmed the middle of her back and framed a pale face. She wore jeans and a hoodie that looked like it didn’t keep her very warm. She could have easily passed for a teen if not for the intensity electrifying her stance.
For this woman, this fire was more than a night’s diversion. It was personal, painful, and as much as she seemed to want to turn away he doubted she could. A tear trickled down her pale cheek and she swiped it away with an agitated hand. She didn’t belong.
Whoever she was, she needed to be questioned before she slipped away. Instinct told him that she had information that would be valuable.
As he moved toward her, a man called his name. “Deacon.”
Garrison turned to see his partner, Detective Malcolm Kier, duck under the yellow crime scene tape. Malcolm had a boxer’s muscular frame, ink-black hair and a cynical nature rarely seen in men in their early thirties. He wore jeans, a gray sweatshirt and worn leather boots. His badge dangled from a chain around his neck and his gun rested on his right hip. The last few days he’d hiked the Appalachian Trail and had returned to Garrison’s message. Garrison and Malcolm were two members of a four-person homicide squad that served Alexandria, Virginia, a city bordered to the north by the Potomac River. The city was packed with a mixture of history, prosperity and poverty.
“I just heard about the fire.” Malcolm’s accent held a hint of his central Virginia roots.
Garrison rested his hands on his hips and shifted his gaze back to the crowd. The woman had vanished. He searched the crowd, carefully going over each face in search of the woman. But she’d slipped away. Shit. He released a frustrated sigh, already wondering if surveillance cameras had picked her up. “I saw a woman in the crowd. She was too wrapped in the fire.”
Malcolm frowned as he too searched the faces in the crowd. “You want to sweep the crowd for her?”
“Yeah. We won’t get near the body until the scene has cooled. Let’s take five.”
“Who am I looking for? ”
“Petite, long black hair, looks like a kid but she’s older.”
The two swept the crowd for the next thirty minutes talking to people to see if anyone knew the woman. None did. A woman carrying a terrier had seen a hooded figure but hadn’t noted in which direction she’d gone. Although the witness had commented the girl had electric blue eyes.
Garrison moved among the crowd, fending questions about the fire, wondering why the woman had captured his attention so quickly. Had seven years on the police force honed in on an arsonist’s vibe or had his tarnished knight-errant character chink simply responded to a woman’s terror? Whatever stirred his fascination, he was wise to remember that waiflike appearances could hide dangerous, unsteady waters.
After forty-five minutes, they’d not found the woman. If she remained in the area, she’d hidden herself well.
“Any sign of her?” Garrison shoved calloused fingers through his hair.
“Nope,” Malcolm said. “And no one seems to have seen her. She’s vanished.”
Damn. Damn. “Fine.”
“She set the fire?”
“I don’t know. But something about that fire bothered her a lot.”
“Deacon Garrison.” The husky, unmistakable voice belonged to Lieutenant Macy LaPorta, arson investigator for the Alexandria Fire Department.
Garrison turned and spotted Macy standing between two firemen. She held up a hand. He’d seen the look before. Stay put.
Macy’s five-foot-eight-inch frame was slight and willowy and she looked almost frail standing so close to two bulky city firefighters who each topped six feet. But only a fool categorized Macy as frail. She wasn’t intimidated by anyone, regardless of physical size or rank.
Curly auburn hair stopped at Macy’s jawline. Expertly applied make-up added color to her naturally pale skin and covered the band of freckles that trailed over the bridge of her nose. She hated the freckles.
As always, she dressed neatly in dark pants, a white tailored top and a dark blazer. Her brown eyes reflected a piercing concentration.
The fireman talking to her had his head bent forward slightly, as if careful not to miss a word. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll let you know as soon as it’s safe to examine the structure.”
“Thanks.” Her gaze caught Garrison and she moved away from the fire toward him. “You two got here fast. ”
“You never call unless there is a reason,” Garrison said.
Her glance moved between the two detectives. “No, I do not.”
Garrison and Macy had dated a couple of years ago. They’d had a lot in common. The sex had been great. But in the end she’d wanted more. And
more
was the last thing he could offer. When her patience had worn thin, she’d told him now or never. He’d chosen never and broken up with her.
Macy had ranted and raved and called him a few names he’d probably deserved. But to her credit, when their paths did cross professionally she remained civil.
“So why have we been called to the scene of a house fire? I know it wasn’t my winning smile.”
Macy nodded. “We suspect arson.”
Garrison stared at the charred and smoking timbers that still hissed a protest as firefighters sprayed water onto the embers. “Fatalities?”
“One.”
“How many people got out?” Malcolm said.
“Seven. And that was a miracle. Witnesses say flames engulfed the place in less than two minutes.” Macy rubbed the back of her neck and glanced toward the charred timbers. “Everyone was spared because they’d been in the front of the house watching television and when the smoke detectors went off everyone hustled out.”
“Where was the victim when the fire broke out?” Garrison said.
“That’s the thing,” Macy said. “She didn’t die in the fire.”
“Where is she?” Malcolm said.
“In the backyard.” She crooked her finger. “Follow me, gentlemen.”
Garrison and Malcolm followed Macy around the perimeter of the yellow crime scene tape to what had been the home’s backyard. Fifty feet from the house lay an area roped off with red crime scene tape and in the center lay a body covered by a white sheet.
Macy moved up to the body, squatted and reached for the sheet. “We covered her up to protect the evidence until we could get the blaze out. This close to the house it’s a miracle she’s not soaked in water.”
Garrison moved beside her, bracing as he pulled rubber gloves from his pocket and tugged them over his hands.
Macy folded back the sheet to reveal a woman’s still, slack-jawed sallow features. The fire had not touched her face and death had yet to rob her of what must have been striking looks when she’d been alive. Full lips, a high slash of cheekbones and blond hair that he imagined were just as much an asset to her as the large breasts hidden by the sheet.
“She doesn’t look like the type who’d have been in the homeless shelter. She came out of that building?” Garrison said.
“I don’t think so.” She rolled back part of the sheet to reveal stab wounds into the victim’s heart.
Malcolm pulled on gloves as he moved to the other side of the body. Both detectives squatted next to the body and studied the deep and jagged wounds. “She reminds me of the woman we found near the Metro stop a few months ago. Stab wounds are similar.” That victim had been identified as Eliza Martinez, age fifty-seven. She’d lived alone, worked as a domestic and her only daughter had died of cancer a year earlier. She didn’t use drugs nor had she ever been arrested. Neighbors had said she was a nice woman. “A good Catholic,” one neighbor commented. Loved it when her grandson visited. No one understood why anyone would have wanted to kill Eliza. So far the case remained unsolved and growing colder by the day.
“This victim’s wounds look deeper, which suggests a lot of rage,” Garrison said. “Martinez had a single knife wound to the chest and she wasn’t naked. In fact, the killer had covered her face with a towel. ”
“There is another big difference between the two victims.” Macy pulled the rest of the sheet down and a rush of worry shot through Garrison’s limbs. The woman’s belly had been branded four times with four-pointed stars, which encircled her navel.
“Shit,” Malcolm said.
Garrison studied the red, angry stars. Christ, the pain she must have endured. He could almost hear her screams in his head. “Martinez certainly wasn’t tortured like this victim.”
Garrison looked around the backyard, encircled by a privacy fence. A back gate banged gently, as if someone had just passed through it. “Any blood trail?”
“No. And there are no apparent signs of a struggle. Clearly, she wasn’t tortured or murdered here,” Malcolm said.
“Why dump her here?” Macy said.
“That’s what we need to find out,” Garrison said. “You said you suspect arson?”
Macy nodded. “I’d bet a paycheck on it.”
Garrison stood, the discomfort in his knees reminding him of his last days as an air force paratrooper. “Why?”
“Hard to say. Intense, intense blaze that started out of nowhere near the back door. There appeared to be nothing near that door that could have accidentally just exploded like that.”
“How long before you know for sure?” Garrison said.
“Chances are I won’t even be able to inspect the embers until tomorrow when the area is cooled and safe to investigate.”
“Let me know as soon as you have information.”
“If your killer set this blaze to cover his tracks, he didn’t do such a good job,” Macy said. “It was a long shot that the house fire would have destroyed the body.”
“I’m not so sure the killer wanted the body destroyed,” Garrison said.
“Why not get rid of the evidence?” she said.
Malcolm shook his head. “If the body is obliterated, there is no one to admire his handiwork. ”
Macy’s gaze lingered on the body before she tore it away. “Think he’ll do it again?”
“I don’t know,” Garrison said.
She shook her head. “As unpredictable as fires can be, I understand they will kill me if I don’t respect them.” She stared at the draped lifeless body. “Whereas people, well, you never quite know where they are coming from. They are a mystery.”
Garrison couldn’t tell if she referred to him or the killer. “I don’t want anyone near this body—including your men. The last thing I need is some nutcase trying to copycat this murder.”
Macy planted her hands on her hips. “A few have already seen it, but I can trust them to keep quiet.”
Garrison met her gaze. “I’m counting on that.”
Bristling at his tone, she raised her chin. “You worry about your people and I’ll worry over mine.”
The fire sparking in her gaze told him if he didn’t back off, they’d land in a full-blown pissing match. Intensely loyal to the men and women who worked for her, Macy would go toe-to-toe with anyone who spoke badly about her “crew.”
Garrison needed cooperation, not a turf war. And if Garrison was good at anything, it was convincing people to see things his way. He relaxed his stance, trying to cool off her temper. “Have you spoken to the survivors of the fire or the shelter director?”
“That’s your gig, not mine.” Still defensive, but breathing a bit less fire, she said, “I’m just here to show you the body so I can get back to figuring out how that fire got started.”
Malcolm dusted imaginary dirt from his hands. “Fair enough.”
Garrison grinned at Macy. “And when you find out anything about the fire, you’ll let me know.”
“You’ll be the first.” She walked back toward the throng of fire trucks and let the controlled chaos swallow her.
“You have a knack for pissing her off,” Malcolm said.
“It’s a gift.”
Malcolm muttered an oath. “You dated her once, didn’t you?”
“Yep. ”
“Christ, man. Any woman in this city you haven’t dated?”
“I never lie and I never make promises.”
“That why all the women love you?” Sarcasm dripped from the words.
Garrison ignored the comment. “Forensics has been dispatched and should be here soon. The first priority is to run prints and find out the victim’s identity. If by some remote chance the two murders are linked, we need to know.”
“The killings look as if they were done by different people.”
“That’s my initial thought.” But he’d let the forensics play out.
“She looks classy,” Malcolm said. “Doesn’t look like she and the first victim ran in the same circles.”
“Doesn’t mean they don’t have something in common.” Garrison glanced at the dark roots peeking out from her blond hair. She appeared well nourished and didn’t show any track marks on her arms. Her breasts appeared to have been enhanced by a plastic surgeon. He covered her body with a sheet.
“Want me to canvas the crowd again?” Malcolm asked.
“Yeah. And keep on the lookout for that woman in the crowd. She might have doubled back. I’ll talk to the survivors.” Tonight promised to be long.
“Will do.” Malcolm peeled off toward the onlookers while Garrison cut back toward the front yard where the seven survivors were huddled under blankets and cradling cups of coffee. Each stared blankly—a sign of shock.
The group looked ragtag, worn and shell-shocked from the fire. Garrison’s gaze scanned the group, beginning with a woman in her fifties. Wisps of gray hair escaped a thinning ponytail, and crow’s feet highlighted brown sunken eyes and leathery skin.
At the opposite end sat a man—mid-thirties with a mocha complexion. He wore a thick hunting jacket two sizes too large, a tattered ball cap that read
ACE,
steel-toe boots, gray shirt and jeans covered with a half-dozen patches.
He’d have to talk to them all individually so one person’s story didn’t contaminate another’s. Eyewitness testimony coupled with trauma often meant skewed memories.
“I saw what happened.” The man on the end with the
ACE
hat had spoken up.
Garrison slipped a hand in his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum as he strolled toward him. He offered the man a stick and waited patiently as the guy unfolded the wrapper and folded the gum in his mouth.
