Count to Ten

by Karen Rose

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll talk to the Doughertys,” Mitchell said. She looked up at Reed. “Then I’d like to go back to Penny Hill’s house, too.”

  “We should also go back to the university. We need to know who else knew where Caitlin would be or if anyone was seen around campus that didn’t belong.”

  “And then to the arcade to check out Joel Rebinowitz’s alibi. I drove by after I left Penny Hill’s last night, but they were closed. They open again at noon.” Mitchell looked over at Spinnelli. “We need a court order for Penny’s files and I still need Burnette’s case files. Can you send Stacy to get them?”

  Spinnelli scratched a note on his notepad. “I’ll take care of the court order. How far back do you want Stacy to go?”

  She looked over at Westphalen. “What do you think, Miles. A year?”

  The old man shrugged. “It’s a place to start. I don’t know, Mia.”

  “Me, either,” she said grimly. “We can stop by Social Services and get access to Hill’s records on the way back then we cross-check until something common pops.”

  “Reed, have you run a database check for similar fires?” Spinnelli asked.

  “Yep. I ran queries through the BATS database, Sunday morning and again this morning before I came. BATS is the Bomb Arson Tracking System that’s maintained by the ATF,” he added in response to Mitchell’s puzzled look. “I got a lot of hits on solid accelerants, but mostly in commercial properties. I didn’t get any hits when I added in the murders. I got thousands when I queried trash can fires. I set up a query to run automatically a few times a day in case our guy does something like this somewhere else. We’ll see.”

  Spinnelli frowned. “So basically our best bet is finding a link between our own cases at this point. Update me before you leave for the day, Mia. Good luck.” He and Unger left the room, but Westphalen hung back, aimlessly fiddling with his tie.

  “You don’t believe in the impact of home life on criminals,” Westphalen said, his voice still mild. Reed hated shrinks’ “mild” voice. It was like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “I think it’s society’s panacea,” he said, not nearly as mildly. “Everybody’s got issues, Doctor. Some people get dealt a harder deck than others. Too bad. Good people deal with it and become productive citizens. Bad people don’t. It’s that simple.”

  Mitchell looked at him, her blue eyes curious, but said nothing. Westphalen pulled on his overcoat. “Such conviction.”

  “Yes,” Reed answered, knowing his answer was curt and not giving a damn. Shrinks used ploys like that to learn things most sane people would rather keep private.

  “We’ll have to talk more someday,” Westphalen said, mild amusement in his voice, then he turned to Mitchell with a warm smile. “I’m glad to see you back, Mia. It wasn’t the same around here without you. Don’t go getting shot again, okay?”

  Her mouth curved, her affection for the old man obvious. “I’ll do my damnedest, Miles. Say hi to the missus.” When Westphalen was gone, she looked up. He thought she’d press him on why he’d been so curt with the shrink. But she didn’t, simply gathered her notes. “You ready to roll, Solliday? The faster we talk to the Doughertys and check out Penny Hill’s house, the faster we can get to the files, which is my absolute favorite part of the job.” Her sarcasm said it was anything but.

  “I thought threatening belligerent boys with bullies named Bubba was.”

  She grinned unexpectedly and his heart lifted a little, the sour mood brought on by the shrink fading away. “Not bad, Solliday. Added a few more poetic words there. Not bad at all. Let’s stop by a drive-through on the way to the Doughertys’. I’m starving.”

  Tuesday, November 28, 8:45 A.M.

  He blinked down at the front page of the newspaper. Wow, the reporter moved fast. He hadn’t expected to see the story until tomorrow. But there it was on the front page of the -Bulletin—serial arsonist/murderer at large.

  I’m not all that large, he thought and smiled at his own joke.

  They’d named Penny Hill as the victim right off the bat. None of the “withholding name of the victim pending family notification” crap. He read on and frowned. Somebody had seen him driving away. Well, they couldn’t identify him even if they did since he’d been wearing the ski mask. It wouldn’t matter if they’d seen the license plates of the car—they belonged to Penny Hill herself.

  “The victim was Penny Hill, forty-seven years old.” Hmm. She looked pretty good for an old lady. At least she had. Once again he chuckled. Now she looked like a marshmallow left in the fire too long.

  At least he imagined she did. What he really wanted was to see the body. To see the house. To see the -destruction he’d caused. But that wasn’t prudent as long as the law was on the case. So who was chasing him? He scanned the article. Lieutenant Reed Solliday, OFI. A lieutenant. They’d sent a higher-up looking for him. None of this junior G-man shit. Good. This Solliday was decorated. Experienced. He’d prove a worthy adversary. That just meant he’d have to work hard to keep his work area clean. Leave nothing for the good lieutenant and his partner to find. So who was his partner?

  His lips curled into a sneer. Detective Mia Mitchell. A woman? They’d actually picked a woman to try to find him?

  They’ll never catch me in a million years. But overconfidence would not be his downfall. He’d plan and act as if two qualified men chased him. But he’d sleep easy.

  He tore the article from the paper and scanned it a last time. They mentioned Caitlin. He’d missed it the first time, so anxious had he been to see Penny Hill’s name in print. “The victim of the first fire is nineteen-year-old Caitlin -Burnette, daughter of Sergeant Roger Burnette—” His heart nearly stopped. “A twenty-year veteran of CPD.”

  Shit. He’d killed the kid of a cop. What was the daughter of a cop doing there anyway? Shit. Furious, he shoved the article into his book, along with the one on the Dougherty fire from yesterday’s Trib and the other one from Friday’s Springdale Gazette on the Thanksgiving fire. Shit. The police would hunt him now, like he was a dog. He swept all his things into his bag with one angry swoop. Dammit. This totally sucked.

  He headed for the door, his heart racing as fear set in. I have to stop.

  Then he stopped in his tracks. No. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. He was doing this for his own future. The anger has to go, remember? You can’t stop until you’re done. Or it would be like... like not finishing a bottle of -antibiotics. It’ll just be worse, stronger, more powerful the next time. The next time he could lose his head and get caught. But right now, he was in full control. He hadn’t lost his head last night, nor would he. He was conscious of every action. He was thinking smarter. Working smarter.

  He wouldn’t stop. Not till he was done. He’d have to be fast not to get caught. He’d have to be perfect. But right now, he had someplace to be. He had to be on time.

  Tuesday, November 28, 9:05 A.M.

  Mia was folding her breakfast sandwich wrapper when they pulled in front of what had once been the Doughertys’ home. A middle-aged couple stood on the curb staring up at the blackened structure in shock. “I think that’s the Doughertys,” Mia said quietly.

  “I’d say you were right.” Solliday blew out a sigh. “Let’s get this done.”

  Mr. Dougherty turned as they approached. “You’re -Lieutenant Solliday?”

  “I am.” He shook hands with the man, then his wife. “This is Detective Mitchell.”

  The couple exchanged a worried glance. “I don’t understand,” Dougherty said.

  “I’m with the Homicide division,” Mia said. “Caitlin Burnette was murdered before the fire was started in your house.”

  Mrs. Dougherty gave a strangled cry, her hand covering her mouth. “Oh God.”

  His face horrified, her husband put his arm around her. “Do her parents know?”

  Mia nodded. “Yes. We informed them yesterday.”

  “We know this is a bad time,” Solliday
said. “But we have to ask some questions.”

  “Wait.” Dougherty shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. “You said the fire was started, Detective. This was arson?”

  Solliday nodded. “We found incendiary devices in the kitchen and your bedroom.”

  Mr. Dougherty cleared his throat. “I know this sounds insensitive and please be sure we’ll do everything in our power to help you... But what do we do now? Can we contact our insurance company? We don’t have a place to live.”

  Beside him, Mrs. Dougherty swallowed convulsively. “Was anything left?”

  “Not much,” Solliday answered. “Contact your insurance company. Just to prepare you, they’ll be conducting an investigation.”

  Now Mr. Dougherty swallowed. “Are we suspects?”

  “We’ll rule you out as quickly as possible,” Mia interjected calmly.

  Mr. Dougherty nodded. “When can we go in to see what we can salvage?”

  “Our wedding photos...” Mrs. Dougherty’s voice broke and her eyes again filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I know -Caitlin’s... But, Joe... Everything’s gone.”

  Dougherty rested his cheek on the top of his wife’s head. “It’ll be all right, Donna. We’ll get through this, just like we got through everything else.” He met Solliday’s gaze. “I -assume either you or the insurance company will be checking our financial records.”

  “That’s standard practice,” Solliday confirmed. “If you’ve got something to tell us, this is a good time, sir.”

  “We were sued five years ago. A customer fell in our -hardware store.” Dougherty’s mouth twisted. “The jury found in favor of the plaintiff. We lost everything.”

  “It’s taken us five years to dig our way out,” Mrs. -Dougherty said wearily.

  “When my dad retired two years ago, he sold us his house, cheap.” Bitterly he looked up at the ruins. “We were starting all over again. Took our first vacation in years. And now this. We had the minimum insurance on this place. Just enough to get a policy. There’s no financial incentive for us to destroy our own home.”

  “Where do you work now, Mr. Dougherty?” Solliday asked.

  “At a home improvement superstore.” Again his mouth twisted. “I’m in charge of nuts and bolts. My boss is a kid half my age. My wife is a secretary. She takes in sewing to make ends meet. We’re not rich people, but we did not do this.”

  “Mr. Dougherty,” Mia said quietly and the man met her eyes without flinching. “Can you think of anyone who’d have a grudge against you and your wife, specifically?”

  “Besides the kook that sued us?” He shook his head. “No. We kept to ourselves.”

  “The neighbors said you changed all the locks on the doors,” Solliday commented and Mia glanced up at him. His expression was calmly unreadable.

  “Emily Richter,” Mr. Dougherty bit out. “The biggest busybody. My parents always asked her to watch the house when they went away. I didn’t want her in my house.”

  “She would have gone through our things,” Mrs. -Dougherty said. “And then told everyone about our finances. She was angry when we got the house at such a bargain.”

  Mia took out her notebook. “Who was the kook who sued you?”

  Mr. Dougherty peered over the top of her notebook. -“Reggie Fagin. Why?”

  She smiled at him. “Just asking the questions. May save me some time later.”

  “You never told us when we can go into our house,” Mr. Dougherty said.

  “We’ll get you back in as quickly as possible,” Mia assured them without giving a real answer. They seemed like nice people, but she’d check them out, just the same. “Do you have any valuables you’d like us to hold in the meantime?”

  “My wedding album,” Mrs. Dougherty said. “Other than that, I can’t think right now.”

  Mr. Dougherty’s face changed, abruptly. “Um... We have a gun, upstairs in our nightstand drawer. It’s registered,” he added defensively.

  Solliday looked surprised. “I didn’t find any guns registered in your name.”

  Mia looked up at him, surprised herself that he’d checked.

  “It’s registered in my maiden name,” Mrs. Dougherty said. “Lawrence. I bought it before we got married. It’s just a .22, but I’d hate for it to fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Excuse us a minute,” Mia said and motioned Solliday with her head.

  He followed her, his jaw tight. “No, I didn’t find a gun,” he muttered before she could ask. “And I looked in that nightstand drawer.”

  “Shit. He could have brought his own gun and then found theirs.”

  “Or Caitlin could have found it when she was up there studying and he took it during the struggle. He may have come unarmed. We could be back to Caitlin as an accident. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “This muddies everything,” she grumbled. As one they turned back to the waiting couple. “We didn’t find your gun,” Mia said. “We’ll report it stolen for you.”

  The couple looked at each other, then back, dread in their eyes. “Was Caitlin killed with our gun?” Mr. Dougherty asked heavily.

  “We don’t know,” Solliday said. “Was it loaded?”

  Numbly Mrs. Dougherty nodded. “I kept it loaded with the safety on. I never fired it except at the firing range, and that’s been... years.”

  “Did you know a woman named Penny Hill?” Mia asked and both shook their heads.

  “I’m sorry, that name doesn’t ring any bells,” Mr. -Dougherty said. “Why?”

  “Just asking the questions.” Mia smiled again to calm them. “Might help me later.”

  “I’ll see if I can find your wedding album. Anything else?” Solliday asked.

  “I know this sounds horrible, what with Caitlin...” Mrs. Dougherty’s eyes were filled with a combination of anxiety and guilt. “My cat, Percy, was in the house. He’s a white -Persian. Did...” She drew a breath. “Did you find him?”

  Sympathy flickered in Solliday’s dark eyes. “No, ma’am, we didn’t. If we do, we’ll let you know. I’ll be right back, Detective.”

  Mia turned back to the couple. “Where will you be -staying?”

  “For now, we’re at the Beacon Inn.” Mr. Dougherty’s brief smile was entirely without mirth. “I guess we’re not supposed to leave town.”

  “For now, it would be easier if I or the lieutenant could contact you when we need you,” Mia agreed neutrally. “Here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything else.”

  “Detective.” Mrs. Dougherty was tentative. “The Burnettes... Ellen is a friend of mine. How are they?”

  “As well as you can expect under the circumstances.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” she murmured.

  They were silent then, waiting for Solliday’s return. -Minutes passed and Mia frowned. He should have been back by now. He’d stressed how dangerous the compromised structure was, but she’d heard nothing to indicate the roof had fallen in on his head. Still... “Excuse me,” she said. Halfway up the driveway she stopped, her eyes widening as Solliday appeared from around the back. “What the hell is that?”

  Solliday grimaced at the filthy bundle he held at arm’s length. “Somewhere under all this dirt is a white Persian. He was curled up against the back door in the mud.”

  Mia grinned up at him. He seemed so disgusted. “That’s so nice of you.”

  “No. I’m mean. Hateful. Take it. He stinks.”

  “No way.” She laughed. “I’m allergic to dirty cats.”

  “My shoes are dirty,” he complained and she laughed again.

  She turned to Mrs. Dougherty. “It appears the prodigal cat has been found. Whoa,” she said as Mrs. Dougherty ran up, hope in her eyes. “For now, this cat is evidence.”

  “Excuse me?” the Doughertys said together.

  Solliday just scowled and kept the cat as far away from his trench coat as he could.

  Mia sobered. “Whoever did this must have let him out or Percy slipped out when he was breaking
in or leaving. We’ll take him in, give him a bath and check him out. We might be lucky and get some physical evidence. If not, we’ll return him to you quickly.”

  “He’s probably hungry,” Mrs. Doughtery said, biting her lip.

  “We’ll feed him.” Mia’s lips twitched. “Won’t we, Lieutenant?”

  Solliday’s eyes narrowed in a way that promised retribution. “Sure.” He held out a padded album that had also once been white. “Your wedding pictures have a good bit of water damage, but a restorer might be able to salvage some of them.”

  Mrs. Dougherty let out a shuddering breath. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Solliday’s scowl softened. “It’s okay. See if you can find a box for Percy. I don’t want him making a mess in my truck.”

  Tuesday, November 28, 9:25 A.M.

  Thad Lewin was back. Brooke leaned against her desk as she watched the students take their places. Mike pulled his chair to the back, Jeff lounged and Manny said nothing at all. But it was Thad she watched. The boy was normally shy, but today was different. Today his head was down, his steps shuffling. He lowered himself to his chair, tenderly. Brooke blinked, not liking the picture that was beginning to form in her mind. She glanced at Jeff, who lifted one side of his mouth in a cruel amusement that made her blood go cold.

  “Mornin’, Teacher,” he drawled. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”

  She didn’t drop her gaze, challenging him silently until his eyes slid down to her breasts. God help us when he gets out. It was a common phrase uttered by every teacher, male and female. She thought about what Devin said last night, that Jeff would reoffend and be back in jail within a month of leaving this place.

  She didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that offense. “Open your books,” she said. “Today we’re going to talk about chapter three.”