Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel

by Hannon, Irene

  After a quick scan of his choices, he picked up one of the larger rocks and weighed it in his hand. Yeah. That should do some serious damage to the tall window in front.

  For the space of a few heartbeats, he hesitated. He’d walked a fine line at times in his PI career, but he’d never strayed over it, never broken the law. If he’d guessed wrong on this whole thing, the glass wasn’t the only thing that would shatter this night.

  So would his career.

  But he trusted his instincts—and they told him Hamilton was up to his eyeballs in trouble. He was 99 percent certain the man would react as he expected.

  He wasn’t going to worry about that other 1 percent.

  Moving closer to the house, he reared back and lobbed the rock. At least he’d finally found some practical use for all those years of college football.

  The sound of breaking glass exploded in the quiet of the night. The rock also played havoc with the blinds. One side dropped, and they swung to and fro inside the window, dangling from a hook at the top.

  Within fifteen seconds, a first-floor light came on. Dev stepped back into the shadow of a pine tree on the neighbor’s property.

  Through the broken window, he watched as Hamilton examined the damage. A couple of minutes later, he came to the door, threw it open, and stepped onto the stoop—just as a police car turned the corner and rolled to a stop on the other side of the street. Larson got out.

  While the officer approached the house, Dev kept his focus on Hamilton. The man backed up, and as the light from the window illuminated his face, Dev read his emotions.

  Panic and terror.

  Any doubts about the wisdom of his plan evaporated.

  “I got a 911 call about breaking glass. Looks like this is the place.” Larson stopped a few feet away from Hamilton. “Any idea who did this?”

  “No.” Hamilton edged toward the door. “But my insurance will cover the damage. Forget it.”

  Larson matched him step for step, keeping the space between them consistent. “Vandalism is a crime. We like to catch people who damage property.” He planted a foot on the bottom step of Hamilton’s tiny porch.

  “I doubt you’ll catch anyone at this hour. People can melt into the night. Don’t worry about it, Officer.”

  This was his cue.

  Dev stepped out of the shadows and walked toward the duo. “I’ll make it easy for you and turn myself in.”

  Both men shifted toward him.

  As Hamilton looked his way, Dev pulled his hat off. If the man had any doubts about his identity, they’d be erased now. His red hair was a giveaway. Might as well play all his cards at once.

  Hamilton’s eyes widened. “What the . . . What are you trying to pull?”

  Playing dumb, Larson swiveled his head back and forth between them. “You two know each other?”

  Dev remained silent.

  “We’ve met.” Hamilton glared at him as Dev stopped beside the officer.

  “Well, now that we have the perpetrator, I’m sure you’ll want to file a report.” Larson started to reach for his notebook.

  “Look . . . it’s late. Can we do this tomorrow?” Hamilton scratched the back of his hand.

  The gesture was at eye level for Larson, and Dev noted his almost imperceptible squint as the man took in Hamilton’s red, chapped hands.

  “If you prefer. But while I have you, Mr. Hamilton, I’d like to ask a few questions about a report I took earlier tonight from your neighbor and the woman who was your guest for the evening. When I stopped by at the time to talk with you, no one answered.”

  Hamilton’s gaze shifted up and left. “I might have been in the shower.”

  If Dev hadn’t already known he was lying, the body language would have confirmed it.

  Larson let a beat of “yeah, sure” silence pass. “The woman says she saw blood in your kitchen.”

  “As I told her, I had a nosebleed while she was sleeping off the three glasses of wine she drank.”

  “She said she didn’t have any alcohol.”

  The corners of Hamilton’s lips lifted, but the stiff smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You must have noticed she was a bit unsteady, Officer.”

  “People can be unsteady for a lot of reasons.” Larson didn’t blink. “She also said she saw a bloody handprint on the basement door and heard suspicious noises. I wonder if you might let me come in and take a quick look around, as long as you’re up.”

  In his peripheral vision, Dev saw a second patrol car pull up. Hamilton saw it too. His nostrils flared and his mouth flattened.

  “It’s the middle of the night, Officer. I’m going to bed.” He backed through the door and grasped the edge, as if he intended to slam it in their faces.

  “This won’t take long.”

  “Not tonight.” Hamilton eased the door toward the closed position.

  “Then I’ll swing by again tomorrow night, earlier in the evening. And I believe a detective will also be stopping by your workplace to have a chat. Are you certain you don’t want to give us a few minutes tonight, save yourself all that hassle?” He gave the last word a subtle emphasis.

  Hamilton’s knuckles whitened on the door even as his complexion reddened. “I’m sure. Good night.”

  As the door shut, Larson inclined his head toward the front sidewalk. Dev fell in behind him.

  The officer in the other car got out as they approached.

  Dev waited while Larson gave a topline to the new arrival, who had rookie written all over him. Lucky thing he hadn’t responded to the first call.

  Maybe God was watching out for them after all.

  Once he briefed his colleague, Larson gestured toward the house. “Check out the perimeter.”

  The younger guy nodded, grabbed a flashlight from the car, and jogged toward the side of the structure.

  “The guy’s hiding something.” Larson planted his fists on his hips. “But my guess is we’re not going to find anything outside that will give us a basis to get inside. Our best bet might be to confront him at work tomorrow and keep the pressure on. Eventually, most guilty people crack.”

  “Eventually might not be good enough.”

  Larson didn’t respond to that comment. He didn’t have to. They both knew the risks of the situation—as well as the legal constraints.

  “I assume you’re going to continue hanging around?”

  “Yeah. I called my two partners in too. Hamilton has to be panicking. He knows he’s being watched by PIs. Knows the police are interested in talking with him. Knows his behavior a few minutes ago was suspicious. People who are afraid often do rash things.”

  “No argument there.” The man pulled his radio off his belt to respond to a call.

  By the time he finished, the younger cop had completed his circuit of the house and rejoined them. “Nothing suspicious. I couldn’t even find any footprints, with the frozen ground.”

  “Okay. No reason to hang around.” As the rookie returned to his car, Larson slid the radio back on his belt. “You have my card, and I know how to reach you on the remote chance Hamilton decides to press charges. I’ll swing by several more times before my shift ends.”

  “Thanks.”

  With a lift of his hand, the man headed back to his cruiser.

  Dev waited while the two cops drove away. Then he walked directly back to the Explorer. It didn’t matter if Hamilton was peeking through the blinds again. The gig was up on the clandestine surveillance. The man now knew he was being watched.

  And even though he was smart, he wasn’t going to outwit three experienced law enforcement professionals. Phoenix would crack this case soon.

  Dev just hoped it was soon enough to save whoever had been bleeding on Hamilton’s floor.

  27

  Mark dropped his head in his hands at the kitchen table, the weight of his failure crushing the breath from his lungs.

  The cops might be gone for now—including the one who’d nosed around his house with a flashlight—but
they were coming back tomorrow. Here, or at work. He hadn’t missed the implied threat the older one had thrown out with the word hassle. Eventually, he’d have to talk with them . . . and they’d be a lot harder to fool than Faith. If they got interested enough, they could make his life miserable.

  The PI wasn’t going away anytime soon, either. The hard set of Devlin’s jaw and the steel in his eyes had told him that. Plus, the guy had two other colleagues, according to their website. They might all be watching his house at this very moment. And based on what had just happened, he had a feeling they’d keep watching it—with or without a steady stream of checks from Darcy’s sister.

  Run!

  That single word strobed across his mind, followed by a surge of adrenaline. The temptation to flee was so strong he half rose from his chair.

  But after a few seconds, he sank back down. That kind of right-brain response would make everyone even more suspicious. And where would he go? It was tough to disappear in today’s world.

  Yet if he stayed, and if the cops managed to get a search warrant, he’d end up in prison. That would be worse than the death of his dream. Worse than death itself. He’d never be able to stay clean in a place like that. The very thought of it made his skin itch.

  Besides, even if everything he’d done up until now remained a secret, his plan for redemption was ruined. Searching for another girl, bringing her here—the risk was too high now. He was on too many people’s radar.

  And what was the point of living if he couldn’t save someone else . . . and thereby save himself?

  None.

  He froze as the truth slammed into him with all the force of one of Lil’s backhanded blows: his well-plotted quest was over.

  As he grappled with that reality, as the pounding of his pulse roared in his ears, he clenched his fists and sucked in a breath. Counted to five. Released it.

  After several methodical reps of that exercise, his brain began to function again.

  The facts were clear.

  Things had fallen apart.

  He’d always known there was a chance this could happen. That’s why he had the necessary materials on hand.

  But he’d never expected to need them.

  Tears pricked his eyes, blurring the room as he struggled to accept the inevitable, to acknowledge that there was no choice.

  When at last he wrestled the last remnants of resistance into submission, he placed his palms on the table. He could do this. But he had to do it right. Succeed at this if nothing else. And it shouldn’t be difficult. All he had to do was follow the plan he’d laid out long ago.

  The outcome wouldn’t be all bad, either. His skin wouldn’t itch anymore. The nightmares would end. His fear of the dark would be history. The gnawing sense of inadequacy, the constant worry someone would discover he was a worthless piece of trash, would disappear.

  That was a salvation of sorts, even if he’d lost the chance for redemption.

  Salvation.

  He let the word resonate in his mind. It had a nice sound. Hopeful and upbeat. Plus, the path he was about to embark on was easier in a lot of ways than continuing his quest. There would be no more pressure. No more stress. No more tilting at the windmill of redemption. Just release . . . and freedom.

  As his pulse slowed, a sense of utter peace settled over him.

  Everything was going to be okay.

  He was going to be okay.

  And he’d never have to be afraid again. Of anything—or anyone.

  Resolved, he pushed himself to his feet, crossed the room, and descended the basement stairs. The four two-gallon metal cans were lined up in a straight row against the wall, near the corner, far from the furnace—right where they’d been since he’d placed them there, one by one, during the first few weeks he’d lived in the house. There was more than enough to do the job, according to his research. Petroleum-based products caused fires to burn fast and hot.

  Just the way he wanted it.

  He hauled the cans to the second floor, two at a time, then retrieved the Ambien from the drawer in his vanity. He didn’t need all of the remaining pills. Five or six would be more than sufficient when downed with a glass of wine.

  After pocketing the pills, he put on a pair of plastic gloves and went through the upstairs, opening the metal containers one by one, splattering the liquid on the upholstered furniture, drapes, bedding, carpets, and rugs. He splashed it on the walls, the floors, the ceilings, and created drip paths from room to room and down the hall.

  Last can in hand, he descended the steps, pouring a zigzag line behind him on the carpet. He also drizzled a generous amount on the rug by the front door.

  No way would anyone get past those barriers and foil his plan.

  The house began to reek of the pungent smell, and he wrinkled his nose. At least he wouldn’t have to put up with the caustic stink for long.

  In the kitchen, he wadded up sheets of newspaper from his recycle bin, forming several balls. Then he pulled the box of extra sturdy matches from the top shelf of the cabinet where he’d placed them after the rehab was finished. Bending, he opened a lower cabinet and withdrew the bottle of chardonnay Star had enjoyed less than two weeks ago.

  Hard to believe so much had changed in such a short time.

  A brief wave of melancholy swept over him, but he quashed it ruthlessly. It was too late for regrets.

  Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, he did some calculations. One Ambien took thirty to forty-five minutes to kick in. Five pills? Maybe ten minutes—and the alcohol would exacerbate the effect. He’d have to move fast once he swallowed them.

  He retrieved a wineglass from the cabinet and filled it to the brim. Not a drop sloshed out, and a smile whispered at his lips. He was calm, cool, collected. And why not? This was his choice. He was still in control of his destiny.

  One by one, he downed the pills. After draining the wineglass, he slipped the matches into his pocket. Then he picked up the newspaper balls and descended the basement stairs, the final metal can in hand.

  Moving through the space, he splashed the remaining liquid on the outside walls of the soundproof room, the concrete floor, and the steps, leaving a wide swath clear around the furnace. He didn’t want the place to blow too soon. He also soaked the newspaper balls with gasoline and placed them around the basement.

  It was time to start the show.

  Matches in hand, he examined his fingers. Not a tremor. Lil might have called him a spineless, brainless twit on her bad days, but she’d been wrong. He was strong. And smart. And brave.

  Circling the room, he lit the wads of gasoline-soaked newspaper. By the time he backed up the stairs, flames were licking up throughout the basement.

  At the front door, he tossed a match onto the rug. It whooshed into flames as he retreated up the steps.

  On the second floor, he threw a match onto the gas-splattered carpet on the steps, backing away as flames erupted in the stairwell. Before entering his bedroom, he ignited the end of the gasoline path in the hall, watching as flames zipped along the trail he’d created, heading for the guest room and exercise room.

  Smoke was already rolling toward the ceiling, and he began to cough. Too soon for that. He had one more task to complete.

  Slipping inside his room, he closed the door behind him and stripped off his gloves, tossing them onto the floor as he walked over to the closet. From the garment bag, he gently extracted the wedding gown.

  The dress was beautiful. Pristine. Pure and white, like a bride should be.

  Too bad it would never be worn.

  His vision blurred as he crossed toward the bed, the dress draped over his arm, and he grabbed the corner post to steady himself. The drugs and alcohol were kicking in. He had to hurry.

  Moving to the edge of the bed, he spread the gown on one side, fluffing the lace, straightening the skirt.

  The room tipped.

  Hurry, hurry.

  He wove toward the door and opened it. Smoke bil
lowed in, and he backed away, coughing.

  Hurry!

  Eyes watering, he touched a match to the circle of gasoline he’d poured in an arc around his bed. Flames scuttled along the protective ring.

  Finished, he sat on the bed and opened the nightstand. As always, Lil smiled back at him from the frame. The real Lil. The sweet, innocent girl who should have worn a dress like the one beside him, given him a father, and created a family like the ones in those old movies and TV shows.

  The room began to spin, and he laid back on the bed. Pressed the photo and the birthday card to his chest, next to his heart. Closed his eyes.

  And the world faded away.

  Standing under the exposed duct, Laura did one final sweep of the room. Despite the throbbing in her head and the searing pain from her stab wounds, she couldn’t afford to miss one single detail. Their lives depended on her getting this right.

  The blanket was caught above the door—barely—in the framework of the drop ceiling, positioned to land on top of Hamilton’s head when he entered the room.

  Darcy was now lying closer to the door so the rope fashioned out of sheeting and attached to one corner of the suspended blanket would be less noticeable. But to better disguise it, Laura had broken all the lightbulbs except the one in the bathroom.

  The small ball made of sheeting was in her hand, ready to roll across the floor toward the door as Hamilton entered. Hopefully he’d be distracted and look down. Then, with one tug from Darcy, the blanket would drop over his head.

  They’d done a dry run, and it had all worked flawlessly—in rehearsal, anyway.

  The sturdy metal support rod she’d wrestled from under the mattresses wasn’t a saber, but it could do some serious damage if she got in a few thrusts and whacks before he untangled himself from the bedding.

  They were as prepared as they were going to be.

  Time to bang on the duct.

  She limped to Darcy and knelt beside her. “I think we’re set. Are you ready?”

  Her sister groped for her hand, her voice faint—and fading. “I love you, Laura.”

  Pressure built in her throat. “I love you too. But we’ll have plenty of time for this sappy stuff later. Hang in a few more minutes, okay?”