by Dan Padavona
“Let’s hope she’s home.”
Presley and Stanton climbed into a Kane Grove PD cruiser and turned out of the parking lot. Thomas followed. His body tensed as they hit every red light in downtown Kane Grove. It seemed the fates wished to delay his encounter with the suspected murderer.
A blood-red stripe marked where the sun had vanished below the horizon. Darkness clawed down from the trees, and shadows claimed the land with each passing second. As Thomas waited for the light to turn, a pickup truck pulled behind him with its brights on. Thomas squinted into the mirror and caught his reflection. He hoped he wouldn’t need to fire his weapon, that the night would have a peaceful conclusion, with Tina Garraway’s murderer behind bars. Experience had taught him to expect otherwise.
The traffic light turned green, and Thomas followed Presley’s cruiser through the intersection, past the car dealership on the corner with the patriotic-colored pennants waving in the breeze, beyond an outlet mall clogged with shoppers, into the suburbs. The police band radio crackled with activity. Something was going on in Kane Grove, but the voices spoke over each other and drowned out the relevant information. He glanced at the GPS. Kaylee Holmes’s neighborhood lay six blocks to the north.
Presley turned down a tree-lined avenue with McMansions sprouting out of the earth. The streetlights flickered on, as if night announced its presence through magic and sleight of hand. They passed another block, and a charcoal scent drifted into the cruiser. He chalked it up to a bonfire somewhere nearby.
Two blocks from Orchard Street, the vengeful spirit of an emergency siren screamed over Kane Grove. Synapses fired in Thomas’s head and made spurious connections between the sounds and scents in the coming night. And that’s when the truth slammed Thomas and sent his pulse into overdrive.
Presley’s brake lights flared as the cruiser came to an abrupt stop. A black Jeep blocked the road.
“Why are we stopping?” Thomas asked over the radio.
“Hold on.” Presley’s voice.
Thomas threw the cruiser into park as Detective Presley stepped out of the vehicle with Stanton alongside. A bearded man in a Mets cap leaned against the Jeep. He held his own radio and kept gesturing at an invisible location in the distance, arms waving with animation.
With a huff, Presley whirled and strode back to Thomas’s cruiser. He was already out of the vehicle and waiting for Presley to give him the ugly news.
“The fire department closed the road, and my radio is going ballistic. Apparently, there’s a raging house fire two blocks to the north.”
“It’s Kaylee Holmes’s house.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“Yes, we do. Get us there.”
Presley gave him a grim nod.
The detective yanked the cruiser down Morgan Lane. A red and blue light twirled atop Presley’s vehicle as Thomas rode the cruiser’s bumper. Two more turns, and they arrived on the far end of Orchard Avenue before the fire police could set up roadblocks. Someone shouted and waved a cautionary arm as the two cruisers sped past. Thomas’s lights and siren added to the mayhem. Smoke thickened the farther they progressed, as looky-loos gathered in yards, pointing and gawking. Thomas tapped the brakes, afraid someone would wander into the road to snap a photograph.
He heard the explosion before he saw the flames. Thomas instinctively ducked.
A memory bubbled to the surface. Thomas standing on the front lawn of a gang house in Los Angeles. Music thumping as a vehicle turned the corner. Someone shouting, “Gun!” before the bodies hit the lawn and the bullet tore into his back.
Thomas pulled his cruiser to the curb as a firetruck passed him on the left. Then he jumped out of the vehicle and watched from the front lawn of a sea-green Cape Cod, with Presley and Stanton beside him. An inferno engulfed Kaylee Holmes’s house. Another explosion shot sparks into the night sky, bathing the officers in heat, illuminating their faces, as though they witnessed the devil’s fireworks.
Now a smoke plume curled above their heads like the tongue of a hunting dragon. A wall collapsed with a whump of flames and thunder, the heat driving them back, the fire reflecting off the red Alpha Romeo parked curbside.
One thing was certain. No one inside could have survived.
45
Before Chelsey drove back to the lake to watch over Naomi and Scout, she stopped by the abused women’s center and checked on Georgia Sims. The woman seemed torn in multiple directions, her hair mussed and her eyes rimmed with black circles.
“Sorry it’s so crazy here tonight,” Georgia said from behind her desk. “There was an incident in the parking lot. A spouse showed up drunk and demanded to see his wife. Security had to call the police to calm him down.” She wiped a hand across her cheek and gave Chelsey an incredulous stare. “Are you certain my stalker is Kendra Harmon? She was so gentle during school. I can’t picture Kendra hurting anyone.”
“She’s a different person now, Georgia. Different name and appearance. She showed up at my house, posing as a prospective buyer. I’m certain she got my name from the business card on your nightstand.” Chelsey loaded Kaylee’s driver’s license photo on her phone. “This is what she looks like now.”
“Kaylee Holmes,” Georgia said, shaking her head. “She looks so different. I’d never believe that was Kendra.”
“You’re the last person on her target list. First Harding, then Tina and Wade.”
“But I never bullied Kendra. I screamed at Tina over how she treated that poor girl. The bullying almost destroyed our friendship.”
“Almost,” Chelsey emphasized. “Your friendship survived, and Kendra sees you as the enemy.”
“I’ve spent my adult life atoning for the way I treated people when I was young and naïve. There are so many things I regret, so many mistakes I made. If I had it all to do over again, I would defend Kendra and ensure nobody hurt her.”
Chelsey’s phone hummed. She read a text from Thomas and held her breath. Kaylee Holmes’s house was burning to the ground in Kane Grove.
Georgia interpreted the shock on Chelsey’s face. “Did something happen? Does this have to do with Kendra?”
“I have to go, Georgia. After your shift ends, a sheriff’s deputy will follow you home.”
“Yes, I received a call from the sheriff’s department an hour ago.”
“Contact me if anything changes.”
Though dozens of women and a security team surrounded Georgia, Chelsey couldn’t shake the creeping sensation that she’d abandoned her client. Darkness pressed on the Honda Civic as she followed the highway back to Wolf Lake. Whenever headlights appeared in her mirror, she scrutinized the vehicle, wary of a red Alpha Romeo storming out of the darkness. But that made no sense. According to Kane Grove PD, flames engulfed Kaylee’s house, and the Alpha Romeo sat on the road three houses down. The evidence suggested Kaylee had been inside when the fire began. No one made it out alive.
Why hadn’t Kaylee parked her new car in the driveway?
46
Dressed in blue jeans and casual attire, Aguilar and Lambert watched from an unmarked car as two officers in plainclothes entered Level 13. As it had in recent nights, the crowd of people hoping to get inside stretched around the corner.
“Do you trust Fairbanks?”
Aguilar glanced at Lambert. “I trust nobody. For all we know, that story about protection money is bullshit.”
“He seemed frightened when Bourn’s name came up.”
“If Fairbanks is telling the truth, Bourn should arrive in . . .” Aguilar checked the time. “Sixty minutes.”
Their radios buzzed with the voices of emergency workers.
“Everything seems to be happening a bit too perfectly tonight,” Lambert said, leaning his elbow on the windowsill. “Thomas identifies Georgia Sims’s stalker. Then Kaylee Holmes’s house burns down with her car parked outside.”
“You don’t think she’s dead?”
Lambert shrugged. “I’m not sure how to take the news.”
Aguilar’s head popped up when a familiar figure approached along the sidewalk, with his head lowered and his hands buried inside his pockets. When Aguilar fell quiet, Lambert followed her gaze.
“Isn’t that—”
“LeVar Hopkins,” Aguilar said, popping out of the car. “And it looks like he’s ready for a war.”
Lambert and Aguilar dodged traffic and rushed down the sidewalk. Aguilar shot glances over her shoulder to ensure nobody recognized their faces.
“What the hell are you doing, LeVar? We told you to stay out of this.”
The teenager lifted his chin. “That’s not how it’s going down tonight. Osmond Bourn started the fight, and I intend to finish it.”
“It’s a suicide mission. I won’t allow you to walk into gang territory. There are people in that club who will shoot you on sight.”
“Not worried about that, Aguilar.”
Lambert set a hand on LeVar’s shoulder, then removed it when LeVar sent him a warning glare. “Easy, my friend. We’ll have four undercover officers inside Level 13 when Bourn shows his face. He’s not getting away.”
LeVar worked his jaw back and forth. He was a lit fuse.
“You’re not going in there,” Aguilar said, straightening her shoulders. “Use your head. You’re unarmed and you’re a target. The second you walk through those doors, everyone will recognize you. Someone will tip off Bourn, and he’ll drive off.”
“Listen to Aguilar,” Lambert said, blocking the sidewalk. “You’re talented, LeVar. If New York State allowed it, Chelsey would hire you immediately. With your smarts, you’ll have a world of opportunities in front of you after graduation. Local PD, the sheriff’s department. Hell, even the FBI. Don’t blow it over revenge.”
A touch of heat fled LeVar’s eyes.
Aguilar touched the boy’s arm. “Think of the people who put their reputations on the line for you. How would it look for Thomas, if you busted down the door to Level 13 and started a full-scale riot?”
Folding his arms, LeVar said, “I can’t stand aside while you go after Bourn.”
“Then don’t. Hey, we can use an extra set of eyes outside the club.” When LeVar shook his head, Aguilar turned his chin to face her. “I mean it. We have multiple blocks to cover, and Bourn won’t park across the street with so many people searching for him.”
“So you want me to roam the streets until I find him.”
“Or spot his SUV, sure. We aren’t blowing you off, LeVar. We need your help.”
LeVar bit his lip and stared over Lambert’s shoulder toward Level 13. “Aight, we got a deal.”
“You have your radio?”
The teenager patted his pocket.
“Good. If you spot Bourn, let us know.”
“Only if you keep me in the loop. If Bourn walks through those doors, I don’t want to hear about it on the eleven o’clock news.”
“I’ll keep you in the loop. But you aren’t to enter Level 13. Agreed?”
“Sure, whatever.”
The boy turned on his heels and strolled away. Ice formed in Aguilar’s chest. Though she trusted LeVar and considered the teen a friend, she hadn’t forgotten he was the most-feared member of the Harmon Kings gang a little over a year ago.
“I hope he keeps his promise,” Lambert said as the boy turned the corner.
“If he doesn’t, this operation will blow up in our faces.”
47
Ash and smoke stained the air as Thomas sipped from a thermos beside Presley and Stanton. The fire department hadn’t put out the inferno so much as the structure had collapsed and burned itself out. The emergency workers focused their hoses on neighboring roofs and walls, intent on confining the fire. Kaylee Holmes’s house was a total loss, nothing but embers and the blackened remains of a home that had stood for seventy-five years.
A firefighter directed water over the wreckage. Embers popped, sizzled, and shot six feet into the air when the water touched them. The fire marshal, an imposing figure with a bald head, walked back to Thomas and his cohorts. Soot blackened his face except where the protective goggles kept his skin clean. The effect made his eyes appear like saucers.
“I can’t spend more than a minute in that mess without retreating. Too damn hot. We could use a cold rain right about now, but that’s not in the offering.”
Thomas gestured at the charcoaled wreckage. “Any idea how it started?”
“Arson, without question. The house went up so fast, there must have been accelerant involved.”
“Gasoline?” Presley asked.
“It burned so hot, my guess is acetone. Acetone has an ignition temperature of almost nine-hundred degrees, and judging by the wreckage, I’d say the fire was damn close to that temperature when it started.”
Thomas’s radio crackled. He ignored it. “How soon before you know if anyone was in the house?”
“Like I said, I’m retreating as soon as I wade inside. We’re doing our best, but it might be morning before we know for sure.” A shout brought the fire marshal’s head around. “Or not. Give me a second.”
The marshal hurried back to the smoldering wreckage. Another firefighter, picking through the remains, aimed a light into what might have been the living room. He stepped away, driven back by the heat. Thomas stepped off the curb and wandered closer. He could see what appeared to be a body amid the ruins. More shouting, then the firefighters began yanking debris aside and digging the corpse out.
“Kaylee Holmes,” Presley said beside Thomas.
He shared a glance with Stanton. The officer issued a noncommittal grunt. After five minutes of work, the fire marshal returned to Thomas and pushed his goggles above his head.
“It’s a woman,” he said, out of breath. “She’s burned beyond recognition, but she has a lean build.”
“That matches Kaylee Holmes’s description,” Thomas said.
Until the medical examiner brought the body back to the lab, the woman would remain unidentified. Thomas wondered how Virgil and Claire would identify the victim. Dental records, perhaps. There was little else to go on.
When the marshal rejoined the firefighters, Presley rubbed the smoke out of her eyes. “It appears the Kaylee Holmes saga has ended.”
Thomas scratched his chin. “I’m not so sure.”
“The woman’s build fits the description, and it was the only body in the house. Plus, her Alpha Romeo is parked beside the curb.”
Thomas turned toward the car. The moon reflected in the windshield.
“Why didn’t she park in the driveway? She just dropped a hefty sum of cash on the Alpha Romeo, and her driveway is empty. If I owned a car like that, I’d worry about a neighbor driving down the street and clipping the bumper, or a couple kids tossing a baseball around and denting the exterior.”
“If Kaylee Holmes is our killer, and the evidence suggests she is, she’s too disturbed to worry about a new car.”
“The marshal thinks it was arson. If that’s her body, we’re assuming she committed suicide. Does that make sense?”
Stanton nodded. “It fits. Maybe she was overwhelmed with guilt after murdering three of her classmates. Holmes would have to be unstable as hell to kill over something that happened eleven years ago.”
Thomas had to admit the odds leaned toward Kaylee Holmes lying dead among the wreckage. After killing three people who’d tormented her during their teenage years, she crumbled under the grief and committed suicide.
But something about the car in the street bothered Thomas. He couldn’t say why, only that there was a missing puzzle piece on the board. Thomas checked the time.
“Georgia Sims gets off work soon. I’ll drive to Ascend and follow her back to her house.”
“You don’t think Kaylee is still out there, do you?” Presley asked. “If that’s not her, why is her car parked on the street, and who is the woman inside the house?”
Lacking an answer, Thomas shook his head.
“Call me if the crew finds anyt
hing new.”
Thomas slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
Until the medical examiner identified Kaylee Holmes, Georgia Sims wasn’t safe.
48
Five minutes after ten. Still no sign of Osmond Bourn.
Aguilar hung out near the back wall of the club as Lambert monitored the staircase from beside the stage. Across the floor, two plainclothes officers stared bullets at the entryway. Maybe Bourn wasn’t coming. The media had picked up on the shooting. With Bourn’s face plastered on every news channel between Syracuse and Rochester, he’d probably decided returning to Level 13 carried too much risk. He’d send another thug to collect his money.
Though Bourn was late to the party, experience taught Aguilar to remain alert. If the mobster appeared, they’d only have seconds to disarm the man before he began shooting. A woman covered with glitter brushed against Aguilar and knocked her against the wall. After issuing a drunken apology, the dancer stumbled to her partner, a twenty-something male wearing a backward baseball cap.
Aguilar took a calming breath and scanned the crowd. An imposing middle-aged male crossed the dance floor. The throng parted and gave the man room as he strode toward the stairs. Aguilar glanced toward Lambert, but couldn’t see her partner over the dancers. She lifted the radio.
“Possible Bourn sighting at your six o’clock.”
Lambert radioed back as Aguilar spied her fellow deputy angling sideways through the crowd to cut off the suspect. The lights hit the man’s face. It wasn’t Bourn.
Aguilar huffed. “False alarm. It’s a security guard out of uniform.”
Now Bourn was twenty minutes late. Fairbanks had told them ten o’clock sharp. Aguilar glared up the staircase toward the closed doors on the second level. Too many shadows upstairs. If Bourn was already on the second level, she couldn’t see him.
“Our target isn’t coming,” a local officer named Cunningham said over the radio.
Aguilar didn’t argue with the man. If Bourn had any sense, he’d head into Mexico or jet to another continent.
