No One Heard Her Scream no-1

by Jordan Dane

  "So my 'he' is a 'she'?"

  "Yep, looks like it."

  When Becca peered deeper into the stone vault, markings caught her eye.

  "Hey, what's this?" She inched closer and directed her flashlight to the left. "Oh, God. Are those what I think they are?"

  Jagged scratches lined the inside of the stone vault. Layers of them overlapped in no discernible pattern. Thin striations mixed with deeper gouges. She felt the group of men move closer. Silence made the air feel thick and oppressive. Motionless. With her discovery, it became harder for her to breathe. Finally, Sam confirmed what she already suspected. By the solemn tone in his voice, she knew it struck him, too.

  "Scratches. Probably from her fingernails. Looks like she was buried alive."

  Becca closed her eyes to block the images, a gruesome strobe effect triggered in her mind. Tortured screams. A mouth gasping for air. Sheer panic. She pictured Danielle dying an unthinkable death, walled away in darkness with no one to hear her cries for help.

  "No one heard her scream." She hadn't realized she'd spoken the words aloud until Sam consoled her with his reply.

  "Until now." He sighed and stared into the hole.

  Danielle's face haunted her. As a homicide detective, Becca had witnessed the perverse nature of the human condition, carried to the extreme. But the varying degrees of cruelty one human being inflicted upon another never ceased to amaze her. The day it did would be the day she'd quit. Still, she knew this case would brand her psyche for years to come.

  "You all right?" Sam nudged her shoulder, his voice quiet and reassuring.

  It took her a long while to answer.

  "Yeah. I'll be okay." The words coming from her mouth sounded trite and mechanical, lacking any real conviction.

  "Think I found something to cheer you up." He reached into the tomb and navigated through the tight space. After shining a light on what he retrieved, he said, "Maybe a lucky charm."

  Sam held a thin necklace with a trinket dangling from it. The metal had been discolored with the years, and dirt clung to the delicate chain.

  "What's that?" She narrowed her eyes to get a better look at the jewelry she took from his hand. Holding the evidence toward the light, she answered her own question. "In the shape of a heart. If this isn't some cheap bauble, it might lead somewhere. Good eye, Hastings."

  Sam smiled. "Yeah, my wife says I have an eye for the expensive stuff. It's pretty tarnished, but it doesn't look cheap to me. And if I'm not mistaken, there are small diamond chips on it, too."

  Becca stood and handed the necklace back, making another note in her book.

  "Who's the arson investigator?" she asked.

  "Rick Gallegos is workin' lead. You know him?" When she nodded, he pointed to the far wall. "Try over there."

  Before she left, the CSI grabbed her arm and pulled her aside, out of earshot from his crew. Concern lined his face.

  "You and your family are in my prayers ... if there's anything I can do."

  She smiled. "With what we do, prayers seem like a Band-Aid on a hemorrhage."

  "Don't get me wrong. I come from a long line of scuba-diving Protestants. Most of my family only surface on church holidays. But I found it . . . helps me."

  "Thanks, Sam. You're a good friend, but really, I'm all right. I'll be in touch on our Jane Doe."

  Complete denial. She heard it in her voice. 'I'm all right,' my ass. Her life had mired in her sister's tragedy and she knew it. But the murder victim's family needed her to function on all cylinders. They deserved her best.

  "Guess prayers can't hurt," she muttered as she walked away. "Maybe God still listens to other people."

  Gallegos was one of the best arson investigators with the city. The man had extensive experience and training, with an education in chemicals. He'd also been part of a bomb squad at another police station. With the pairing of Rick Gallegos and Sam Hastings on this investigation, maybe she hadn't drawn the short straw after all.

  Rick was her height, with thick dark hair and skin the color of rich mocha. His eyes were almost black, and he possessed a piercing stare, the kind that unnerved the guilty. But for those having the pleasure to work with him, he showed warmth and good humor in his gaze. A diligent investigator and a thorough one. She liked him from the first day they had met, several years ago.

  "Hey, Rick." She lowered the beam of her flashlight, leaving his face partially lit. "This case is gonna be tough enough. Glad you're working the fire. How's it coming?"

  "Getting close to wrapping up, but I've got something for you to see. Follow me, Becca." He waved a hand and led her through the burned rubble.

  He took her toward a back door and into the bright sunshine. Becca shielded her eyes with a hand, but it felt good to be out from under the oppressive darkness of the charred Imperial. Parts of her skin were caked with a layer of dust. Feeling gritty, she ran a hand over her chin, only to find her gloves smeared with soot. No telling what she'd find on her white blouse.Just great! She'd clean up in the car. It wasn't her day. Becca filled her lungs with fresh air and let Rick talk.

  "Arsonists believe fire destroys evidence, but not if an investigator knows what to look for. They forget only the vapor burns, not the liquid part of the fuel. So if any material is saturated with an accelerant, the wetness prevents the cloth from burning, leaving behind evidence for us to connect the dots. If we match the fabric to something on the premises of a suspect, we've got a link to the crime scene."

  "So what have you learned so far?"

  "I've been examining patterns of burn, the structure of the building itself, the ventilation factors, and what fuel loadings were available. The Imperial was a veritable powder keg waiting for someone to strike a match." He brought her toward a large garbage receptacle set too close to the back wall of the building. "But I found some 'pour patterns' in and around this Dumpster. They look promising."

  He squatted near a pile of trash and pointed, continuing with his preliminary findings.

  "Incendiary fire. A candle ignited the blaze and served as a time delay. It looks like some type of liquid accelerant was used. More than likely gasoline, but I'll confirm that when I run it through the gas chromatograph. See here? It burned in a way that remained visible after the fire." Rick pointed to the burn pattern, or rather, the absence of burn. "I'm still collecting evidence, enclosing what I find in airtight containers to prevent cross contamination and keep the integrity of the accelerant intact. But so far, this looks like arson, deliberately set."

  Arson added a wrinkle of complication, but a thought registered in her mind.

  "Guess if the fire hadn't happened, we might never have found our Jane Doe buried in the wall. Whoever set the blaze may help us find justice for our murder victim. At least we have a shot at it. Kind of an interesting turn of fate, I'd say."

  The irony appealed to her. Becca handed her helmet to the fire investigator.

  "I'll leave the stylish headgear with you. Send me a copy of your findings. And thanks, Rick."

  "Will do." He nodded and headed back into the building.

  Normally, the owner of the Imperial Theatre would be considered a strong suspect for a fire caused by arson. As a rule, the fraudulent act was committed to collect insurance money, especially if the policy amount exceeded the value of the real estate. That fit the bill for the Imperial in its current state of disrepair. But if the property owner had anything to do with the body buried in the theater, an arson fire would be the last thing the owner would want. An arson investigation would only shed light on a very deep, dark secret.

  The pieces to this puzzle didn't make sense—yet. But there was nothing like a good mystery. No matter how her investigation proceeded, the owner of the Imperial Theatre would be high on her interview list.

  Becca jotted some more notations into her casebook and walked around the building, still thinking about the murdered woman. When she rounded the corner at the front of the theater, she caught sight of her mystery man's
Mercedes, but he wasn't in sight. For an instant, she felt—

  "Disappointed, Beck? Get over yourself. With my luck, I'll find him in one of the mug books back at headquarters, with priors as long as my arm." She heaved a sigh.

  Reaching into her jacket pocket, she retrieved her car keys and walked across the street. After unlocking her car door, she noticed movement near the corner of the Imperial. Becca recognized the man, even under his designer shades. But instead of crossing the street toward his expensive ride, the guy headed in the opposite way, as if he had somewhere else to be. Doubts crept into her mind. Maybe the Mercedes wasn't his.

  No way! The man definitely fit the ride.

  "So what are you up to, GQ?" She pursed her lips and thought for a moment, giving in to her impulse to follow. With enough people around, she could blend in and tail him from her side of the street. Mostly, Becca was too damned curious to let him walk away. She slipped on her sunglasses. On instinct, she felt for her Glock, lodged in a holster at the small of her back.

  Speaking to her weapon, Becca muttered, "Let's you and me take a stroll, shall we?"

  CHAPTER2

  The man walked with purpose, hands in his pockets. A sexy swagger. If she'd known the name of his tailor, Becca would have sent a thank-you note. His suit accentuated every asset the man had. Her target moved with a certain power and grace she always associated with a Grade A male. Yet with his head lowered in boyish charm, his body was a contradiction. Navigating the streets with eyes looking down, he seemed to know where he was going. A man on a mission. His face stern, he looked preoccupied and deep in thought. And although people noticed him, they avoided eye contact, maybe sensing a trace of danger. Eye candy tinged with risk.

  Becca felt it, too. Gut instincts as a cop . . . and as a woman.

  The guy never turned her way. When he slowed and sat down at a small table in front of a sidewalk cafe, she ducked into a bookstore on her side of the street. With her nose in a book, Becca stood by a large window, maintaining surveillance. GQ placed his order. Before long, the waiter brought two hot beverages. He expected someone to join him.

  "This could be interesting," she muttered.

  Raising the book to cover her face, she peeked over the top of her sunglasses. In a simple gesture, her well-dressed target raised a hand and waved. His guest had arrived. Becca looked up and down the street, waiting to spot the newcomer to the scene. No one stood out. But he waved again. This time, with a faint smile on his face.

  Eyes wide, she almost dropped her book. What the hell? She glanced over her shoulder. No one stood behind. Is he waving at me?

  When she turned back, he had removed his sunglasses and stared at her, a definite invitation—or a challenge. Her face heated with embarrassment, but in no time, her blush dissolved into anger at being caught. Becca jammed the book back on the shelf and took a deep breath.

  "Don't let him get to you, Beck. And don't underestimate him again."

  Outside the bookstore, she stood on the curb, waiting for the traffic light to change. GQ hadn't moved. Sprawled at the small wrought-iron table for two, he had his arms crossed over his ample chest, looking plenty smug.

  With the breezy day, no sane person would have chosen a seat outside. So without a doubt, the mystery man and Becca would have their privacy. She gritted her teeth, determined not to give in to his not-so-subtle game of intimidation. Hiding behind her sunglasses, she glared at him as the light changed. He reminded her of an old tomcat about to play with his next meal.

  Becca took her time crossing the intersection. What would she say? After all, she'd been caught in the act of following him. Scenarios played out in her mind, but as she approached, he made the first move.

  A low masculine voice with a faint Hispanic accent.

  "I've taken the liberty of ordering your favorite. Cappuccino with cinnamon, I believe." He stood and pulled the seat out for her. "You looked like you could use a break."

  She removed her sunglasses and sat down, eyes focused on the man taking the seat across from her.

  "You knew I'd—" Of course, he knew she would follow him. Damn it! "And I suppose if you know my java preferences, you obviously know my—"

  He never let her finish.

  "Your name, Detective Montgomery?" He grinned, showing a subtle display of dimples. "At the risk of sounding like a stalker, the answer is yes. Or do you prefer Rebecca?"

  No amount of charm or cappuccino tempered her shock.

  And still, he pressed his advantage. With a downright lethal smile, he leaned toward her, close enough for her to get a whiff of his distinctive cologne. His intimacy and the small table did a number on her head. In her mind, the busy street and all its noise faded to nothing. All she saw were those eyes—dark, sensual, and honey brown. They commanded her complete attention. Becca tried to turn away but found it impossible. The man stared straight through her—unnerving and mesmerizing at the same time. With the palpable connection between them, she wondered if he felt it, too.

  Becca had to break his spell. She shoved the cappuccino aside and matched his posture, elbows on the table.

  "You have me at a disadvantage. I don't know your name. You in a sharing mood?" She tilted her head and waited.

  "A resourceful woman like you? You'll find out soon enough."

  The cagey bastard sure liked hoarding his secrets. She had to gain control of this conversation, fast.

  "I noticed you hanging out in front of the Imperial earlier."

  "Is this a crime, Rebecca?" A slow lazy smile, dark eyes riveted on hers. "If so, you won't catch me doing it again. After all, I am a law-abiding citizen."

  He took his first sip of coffee. Becca found herself fixated on his lips, full and expressive. Oh, hell! This man could be connected to the arson fire. Focus, Beck. Keep your wits, woman. She sat back in her chair and forced a smile.

  "I think the operative word is 'catch.' You seem to have eyes in the back of your head."

  Her mind worked overtime as she kept up her end of the conversation. Becca made a mental tally of his appearance, for purely professional reasons. Well over six feet tall with a lean athletic build, around 180 pounds. But when her imagination drifted to picturing that body up close and personal, under silk sheets, she forced herself back into cop mode and continued with her inventory of the man.

  Full head of black hair, well-groomed. And he smelled so damned good.

  She grimaced at her lack of focus and continued with the tough job of taking stock. Manicured nails. Expensive threads. A small scar over his right eye—a thin white line against an olive complexion—gave his face character. And it might prove to be a distinguishing mark to ID him. But his most memorable feature—his eyes—she'd recognize anywhere.

  If those eyes lurked in a mug book or in a database, she'd know them on sight. Deep brown honey melting under a July sun. Was that an eye color?

  "You look like a guy with an agenda. What were you doing at the theater?" She tried the direct approach.

  "I was there to represent the interests of my . . . benefactor. At one time, he had an affiliation with the old theater. That is all." He sipped his coffee, a slow deliberate move. "Looks like your investigator found evidence of arson."

  "You guessing, or do you know this for a fact?"

  "A pretty good guess, I'm afraid."

  Putting two and two together, she now understood why he'd been across the street, near the corner by the theater. He'd spied on them as they inspected the Dumpster in the back parking lot of the Imperial. Knowing he'd deny it, she tried a different tack.

  "So this benefactor and his so-called affiliation, did he once own the property?" When the man answered with only a sly smile, she tried again. "Okay, let's try something a little more simple. Does your benefactor have a name?"

  "All in good time, Rebecca. I have faith in your ability to detect such things." He cocked his head, not taking his eyes off her. "But I have to warn you. My benefactor is a very dangerous man."

&
nbsp; "Is that a threat?"

  "No, consider it a warning. More of a professional courtesy."

  She narrowed her eyes and stared at him, trying to determine any hint of sarcasm. He looked dead serious.

  "Aren't you taking a chance by warning the cop working the case? If he's so dangerous, why cross him?"

  "Guess I like living on the edge." His expression grew more solemn. Eyes down, he toyed with his coffee cup. "And he doesn't own me . . . yet."

  She reached across and rubbed her fingers on the sleeve of his expensive suit. "Oh, I don't know. Looks like he's made a hefty down payment on his investment."

  For a brief moment, he torqued his jaw and looked up. She'd hit a nerve.

  "Just make sure you bring your A-game with this guy. He's powerful and as nasty as they come."

  "Don't you worry about my A-game, Slick." She raised her chin in challenge. "I always bring it."

  "Oh, really." With eyes focused on her lips, he picked up a napkin.

  In a surprising gesture, he leaned closer and reached for her, a pale blue linen in his hand. Becca pulled back at first, shocked by his bold move. But as he wiped her chin, with an unexpected gentleness, she gave in to the intimacy and relaxed.

  Way to go, Beck. Real classy. All this time, she put up a front of bravado with black smudge on her face, a remnant from the fire. And he kept a straight face, not mentioning it.

  With a raised eyebrow, he showed her the dirty napkin—proof of her A-game.

  "Thanks." She barely looked him in the eye. "Guess it's been a long day."

  After a strained moment, Becca noticed he hadn't backed away. She found him staring. And once again, she sensed a strong connection. As close as he was to her, anyone along the street might have assumed they were lovers. Becca imagined she felt his breath on her skin, and yet his touch seemed so natural—as if they'd met in another life.

  A stirring, unforgettable moment.

  But without warning, he broke the bond, sternness back in his expression. A gust of wind blew her hair, and, in a snap, her connection to him faltered. He sat back in his seat and let awkward silence build between them. It reminded her they were strangers who had run out of things to say.