The Detective (7 page)

“Stay off Google, Mother!” I called to her from the front door as I grabbed my coat.

“Be careful, Nathan!” she replied as I slammed the door behind me.

Inside my truck, my police scanner was a flurry of activity. The scene of the robbery escalated with impressive speed and before I even got to the highway, someone had called in possible gunshots and a fire. The country club was normally only ten minutes away, but it was rush hour and I’d driven my personal truck instead of my unmarked SUV with lights and a siren. I cursed every red light I hit.

When I pulled up in front of the three-story stone house, the second floor windows were leaking black smoke and bright orange flames licked at the glass. The sun was setting and the smoke rising against the horizon created a ghostly fog in the fading sunlight.
 
The fire department beat me there by five minutes.
 

A crowd had gathered on the front lawn and two other deputies, who had arrived just before I did, were trying to keep them out of the way of the firefighters as they toted hoses and gear at a sprint, to and from the house.
 

“Where are the homeowners?” I asked one of the deputies, whose name I couldn’t remember.

“We just got here, Detective,” he answered, holding a couple of teenage boys at bay with his arms.
 

I put my hands on my hips. “Who called it in?”

“I did!” An older woman—caucasian, early seventies, white hair—was standing beside him. “I live just over there.” She pointed to the house to our left. “I called 9-1-1 when I heard some glass breaking, and I saw two men with masks on their heads go in the side door over there. While I was on the phone, there were gunshots inside the house!”

I took a few steps toward her. “Ma’am, who owns this home?”

She looked around the yard. “Dr. Withers. He’s a cardiologist over at Duke.” She strained her eyes. “But I haven’t seen him.”

I nodded toward the house. “Do you know if anyone was at home?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. The doctor and his wife split up a few months ago, but his kids still live here. They’re in school.”

I pulled a pen and a mini notebook out of my jacket pocket. “How old are the kids? Do you know?”

“High school age,” she answered. “Anthony and Carissa, a boy and a girl.”

“The men entering the house, can you tell me anything about them?” I held my pen angled, ready to take notes.

“One of them was tall and thin, the other was short and a little plump. They were white, but I could only tell by their hands. They were wearing dark ski masks.”

“Did you see how they got here?” I looked around. “Was there a car, or were they on foot?”

She shrugged her tiny shoulders. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see a car, but there was a lot going on.”

A blue sports car rolled to a stop in the middle of the street and a teenage boy—black, short hair, six feet—stepped out of the driver’s side. The fear in his eyes told me exactly who he was. “Anthony Withers?” I took a step toward him.

His gaping mouth didn’t respond, but he nodded slightly.
 

“Anthony, look at me,” I said.

He blinked and we made eye contact. “Th… that’s my house.”

I gripped him by the arms to hold his attention on me. “Anthony, do you know if anyone was at home?”

“Uh…” He looked around. “My sister, Carissa, was supposed to come home after school.” His eyes were becoming frantic as he searched the crowd. “Where is she?”

I got in his face again. “Anthony, I need you to stay here. I’m going to go and find her.” I grabbed the other deputy by the jacket and looked at him seriously. “Keep an eye on him,” I said, shoving him toward the frightened kid.

I took off in a jog across the lawn toward the burning home. Two firefighters were carrying the hose toward the front door. “Hey, there might be a girl in the house. A teenager!” I shouted over the commotion.

“They’re clearing the house now!” one of them replied, not pausing to look at me.
 

Another firefighter was up on a ladder to the second floor, using an axe to bust out another window. I was watching him rip the glass out of the frame when someone shouted my name from the front door. A large firefighter dressed in full gear was waving his arms. I ducked through the people coming and going from the front entrance.
 

“Nathan, it’s Rob Burgess!” the man shouted, lowering his mask so I could see his face. Rob was a captain at the fire department. It wasn’t the first time we’d been at the same crime scene.

I shook his hand. “How’s it going in there, Rob?”

“I’m afraid we have a fatality.”

A boulder, the size of Saturn, dropped into my stomach.
 

“Looks like the fire was started to cover up a homicide,” he continued. “She’s burned pretty bad, but she’s got an obvious gunshot wound to the head.”

I thought I might vomit.

“How soon can I get in there?” I asked.

He nodded back inside. “The fire is pretty well contained to the second floor and we’ve almost got it under control. I’ll keep you posted.”

He disappeared back into the house, and I turned back toward the lawn with my radio out ready to call in a homicide. Across the yard, the deputy was still having to restrain Anthony Withers.

His sister was dead and scorched inside the house behind me.
 

I thought of my little sister, Ashley. Then I turned and puked on the rose bushes.

EIGHT

CARISSA ANGELIQUE WITHERS had been shot in the head at point blank range in the doorway of her bedroom. She was fifteen. Laying next to her charred frame was a ten thousand dollar murder weapon: a hand-engraved, 1853 Remington revolver.

I’d lost four pounds by Thursday because I couldn’t eat. Or sleep.

A few things became clear to me after we’d collected all the evidence from the house fire. These weren’t seasoned criminals as I had originally thought. No criminal would carry an antique handgun that hadn’t been fired in a century to a robbery. They were lucky it hadn’t blown up in their hand. My theory was the gun was taken as a nifty trinket from the safe in the Carreras’ home, and it was carried by an amateur, albeit brilliant, thief to the next target. They hadn’t expected Carissa to be at home during the time of the robbery, and she was shot by a remorseful shooter because she surprised them. The handgun—complete with a set of at least partial fingerprints—had been discarded and set on fire to cover up the accident because they didn’t know what else to do.

The forensics team at the State Crime Lab was working on the gun.

A couple other points were very interesting as well. The home was protected by ArmorTech, and Dr. Withers kept cash in a combination safe inside his home office. The thieves hadn’t gotten to it, however. They bolted empty-handed as soon as they set the fire.

I’m missing something,
I thought over and over and over again.

The doorbell of my apartment chimed. I looked at the clock on the desk in my office. It was almost nine at night. When I reached the front door, I checked out the peephole and saw Shannon shivering out in the cold. My head thumped against the door as I knocked my forehead against it.

“Nathan?” she called out.

I pulled the door open and stepped out of her way. “Hey. What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.” I wasn’t exactly expecting her then either. With everything that had happened since Monday, we’d hardly spoken, much less finalized plans.

“I was worried about you.” She put her bag down and unbuttoned her coat. “Your mom said that—”

I cut her off with a wave of my hand. “My mother? You’re still talking to my mother?”

She blinked with surprise. “Well, yeah. I emailed her when I didn’t hear back from you on Tuesday. She sent me the news article on the girl who died and said she was worried you were taking it really hard.”

I bit the insides of my lips to keep my mouth from flying off on its own accord.
 

She draped her coat over the back of my recliner. “Are you mad?”

I blew out a slow puff of air. “I’m not mad, but I’m not exactly happy either to be honest. I’ve got a lot of stuff going on and I like you, but…”

Her shoulders sank. “I’m sorry, Nathan.” She picked up her coat again. “I just wanted to help.”

As she reached for her bag, I grabbed her arm. “No, I’m sorry. Come here.”

God, she smelled good. Like a long winter nap and fresh laundry—both of which I needed desperately. “Is that lavender?” I asked, nuzzling my face against her neck.

She giggled. “You know what lavender is?”
 

“I have sisters.”

“Oh yes. Lara and Karen, correct?” she asked.

Pulling back, I narrowed my eyes. “Geez, how much have you been talking to my mom?”

She put her hands on my chest. “Not too much. She’s worried about you. So am I.” She batted her eyes up at me. “Can I do anything to make you feel better.”

I smiled. I could think of a few things.

I was wide awake well into the middle of the night, despite Shannon’s valiant attempt to exhaust me. Absentmindedly, I traced my finger up and down her spine as she lay sprawled out across my mattress in the moonlight. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Anthony Withers’ face across that lawn. It was the same face I’d had while I watched police search the parking lot after a football game during my senior year of high school. I knew then, just like Anthony did, that I would never see my sister again.

Maybe it was Lieutenant Carr’s voice haunting me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Carissa Withers wouldn’t be dead if the robbery cases had my full attention. But how could it? I was also more certain than ever that a serial killer was lurking in North Carolina, and it was only a matter of time before another girl was taken.

I looked down at Shannon, and my heart lurched at the thought that it could be her. What if she was next?
 

Good god, I have real feelings for this woman.
I sat up in the darkness of my room and swung my legs off the bed.

“Nathan?” I heard Shannon whisper.

Reaching behind me, I ran my hand along her bare arm. “Shh. Go back to sleep.”

I got up and tugged on the gym shorts I had discarded by the bed, then quietly crept out of my room and down the hall to my office. I flipped on the light and flinched as it burned my retinas. For ten solid minutes, I sat with my feet propped up on the desk and stared at the map of North Carolina on the wall.
 

Two women in Raleigh, two in Greensboro, two in Hickory, two around Winston-Salem, two around Statesville, and Leslie Ann Bryson in Asheville.
 

“Oh shit!” I sat up so fast that I knocked a cup full of pens off my desk.

How have I not seen this before? If Leslie Bryson was another victim of the same perp, that would make Asheville the only city with only one victim…

“Is everything OK in here?” Shannon was rubbing her eyes as she walked into the room. “I heard a noise.”

“I’m sorry. I knocked some stuff off my desk.” Her perfect legs were peeking out from underneath my NC State t-shirt. “Go back to bed, babe. I’ll be there in a minute.”

She circled her arms around my neck from behind. “What are you doing in here?”

“Working.” I pointed to the map. “I think I just figured out something important.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked.

I nodded. “Either there’s another missing woman in Asheville or there’s about to be.”

She yawned. “Is it going to happen before breakfast?”

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

She tugged on my arm. “Then come back to bed with me. You can figure it out tomorrow.”

* * *

The next morning, I went for an early run before Shannon woke up, and on my way back to the apartment stopped and got the mail that had been piling up in my mailbox all week long. When I walked back through my front door, I could smell sausage sizzling in the kitchen. Shannon, still wearing nothing but my t-shirt, was standing at the stove.

“Breakfast?” I asked, walking up behind her.

She looked back over her shoulder as I deposited the mail on the counter and slipped my arms around her waist. “I found the sausage in the freezer, but it didn’t have a date on it, so I’m praying it doesn’t kill us. The only thing else you have to eat here is an alarming amount of candy.”

I laughed. “That’s why I run.” I kissed the bend of her neck as she turned a patty. “I could get used to this.”

A small moan escaped her throat. “Do you have to work today?”
 

I nodded and pulled away from her. “Yeah.” I started flipping through the mail on the counter. “And as much as the guys at work would love to meet you, you’ll have to stay here.”

“I assumed as much. I brought my laptop to keep myself busy,” she said.

Underneath my March copy of Maxim magazine was a flyer for Daycon Securities. I picked it up and read it aloud. “Top of the line wireless security… remote web and mobile access… secure remote video monitoring.”

She giggled. “You really do need a security system to protect your television and recliner.”
 

I pinched her side. “Shut up.” Leaning against the counter, I tapped the flyer against my forehead. Dots were desperately trying to connect in my brain when it hit me. “Remote web access.”
 

“What?” she asked.

Excited, I kissed her cheek. “I swear I think better when you’re here.”

She held up a piece of sausage to my lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I bit into it and smiled. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

“Need some help?”

I laughed as I backed out of the kitchen. “Woman, I’ll never get to work!”

NINE

IF I WERE a skipping kind of guy, I would have skipped into the office that morning.
 

Margaret noticed my chipperness and lowered her reading glasses to look at me. “Morning, Detective.”

I slapped my palm down on the surface of her desk. “Good morning, Marge! Glorious day, isn’t it?”
 

Her right eyebrow peaked. “You’re making me nervous.”