by Mary Burton
She climbed the last staircase to her room. Entering, she locked the door behind her, checking it twice to make sure it was secure. For years she’d dreamed of sleeping with an open unlocked door and now she couldn’t sleep unless the door was closed and locked.
Her room was small, but neatly organized as if she remained confined to an eight-by-eight cell. Furnished with twin beds, one covered with a blue comforter and the other pink, both chosen from the Goodwill store for warmth not style. She didn’t need two quilts or two dressed beds, but maybe, just maybe, she’d have her sister over sometime. She should have called her sister months ago, but Eva had wanted to be someone with a real future and not an ex-con with a past dangling around her like a weight.
Between the beds was a desk and chair that she’d salvaged from a street corner. On the desk were used books she’d bought in the community college bookstore. Intro to Literature. Trigonometry. The Internet. Most women who’d reached their late twenties had long finished school or were on to graduate classes or careers. She was just beginning.
Nearly a decade lost.
An old bitterness rose in her but just as quickly she chased it aside. Eyes forward. That was her motto.
Eva flipped on the light in the small adjoining bathroom. She pulled down the hand-washed bras and panties hanging on the rod and tossed them on the second bed.
She turned down her comforter.
Eva headed back into the bathroom and turned on the tap. Gratefully, she stripped off her grimy clothes, which smelled faintly of smoke. She slipped under the shower’s hot spray and savored the rush of water over her face and through her hair.
The emotion of the fire rushed through her, loosening the tight hold she normally kept on her emotions. Memories of another fire burned through from her subconscious. Despite ten years, she could still remember the moment, the coiling stench of hot metal burning her flesh before she’d blacked out. To this day she still shied from any kind of flame.
For the first time in a very long time, she let her guard drop. The tears came almost immediately, rushing down her cheeks and dissolving into the shower’s spray.
As much as she wanted to believe that the fire was an accident, she just couldn’t in light of the dream and the Anniversary, which was less than a week away.
Eva’s survival instinct, like a clenched fist in her chest, whispered warning.
Leave Alexandria!
Something is not right!
Foolish to return!
No matter how much the fear goaded her to run, she refused. She now believed King or fate had brought her back to Alexandria for a reason bigger than a waitress job.
Crime reporter Connor Donovan reached for the beer bottle on the edge of his desk as he reread the letter from the managing editor. Due to declining ad sales …
The letter went on to say that crime reporting no longer sold papers like it once had. With twenty-four-hour cable shows and the Internet available, people didn’t turn to their local paper for news.
“Christ, I am not a snot-nosed reporter writing for some hayseed paper.” He glanced at the awards on his wall and took another pull from the beer, which had grown hot and bitter. He crossed his loft apartment that overlooked the Potomac and opened the refrigerator, stocked with three six-packs of beer, a couple of cartons from the neighborhood Chinese restaurant and a few cartons of eggs.
Connor twisted open the top on another beer. He should slow the pace. He had another meeting with his editor in the morning and needed to be alert.
The phone rang. Connor ran long fingers through shoulder-length hair as he crossed the room to a thirties-style rotary phone. “Donovan.”
“It’s Marks.”
Elaine Marks on the assignment desk at the paper. “We have a story for you to cover. Homeless shelter burned.”
“My stuff isn’t selling papers anymore.” His petulant tone sounded childlike.
“You’re gonna want to cover this story.” Her calm, clear voice reminded him of his mother.
“Why? Even if it was arson, who really cares about a shelter burning?”
She laughed, refusing to offer him an ounce of sympathy. “My, my, you are in a snappish mood this evening. ”
“See your paycheck cut by forty percent and then let’s see how much you smile, sweetie.” The sourness of his demotion churned him like spoiled milk.
Elaine lowered her voice a notch. “Stop your bitching and moaning. This story could have legs under it. ”
“Then tell me.”
“Got a tip from someone from the scene just a few minutes ago. Cops found a murdered woman behind the shelter.”
He dug into the beer label with his thumbnail. “And why should I care? Chicks get murdered all the time.”
She muttered an obscenity under her breath. “Oh, man, you are gonna owe me the best bottle of champagne money can buy.”
“Spit it out, Elaine.”
“The victim had a funky brand on her stomach.”
“A brand?” He lowered the bottle from his lips. His stomach clenched a little excitement. “What kind of brand?”
“Four-pointed star, baby.”
Connor didn’t speak for a long moment as his mind tumbled through the past. The Sorority House Murder had been the series he’d done ten years ago that had landed him on the map. He’d gone from covering petty crimes to his own bylined column. The story’s details had been a dream: a modern-day Delilah on scholarship who had killed her rich lover and then burned the sorority house to hide evidence. She’d cried rape, but friends testified she and the boy had been lovers. His little Delilah had simply gotten angry when lover boy had broken off their relationship. In the end, the jury had sentenced the girl to ten years in prison.
“You remember the star, don’t you?” Elaine said.
“What are the chances that this story connects with the old story?”
“I don’t know. Probably none, but who cares? You’re clever. You can at least stir a little trouble with an alleged connection. Either way couldn’t hurt. From what I’ve heard, your column is begging for a little sex and drama. ”
Connor shuffled through the papers on his desk until he found a pen. “I’ll make it work.”
“That’s my boy.”
“Give me the address.”
It was past midnight when Lenny Danvers stared at the brick colonial with dark windows, tall boxwood shrubs and two uncollected newspapers in the neat gravel driveway. The house’s size and location said: money. The dark windows and newspapers said: on vacation. The boxwoods said: cover and protection. He’d been driving around for hours looking for this very combination.
The other houses on the street appeared dark and quiet, but to play it safe he parked his rented Saab at the end of the block and then jogged back to the house he’d just scoped. Quickly, he slipped behind the tall bushes and inspected the windows for signs of an alarm system.
Many rich folks had alarms but it amazed him how often they left town with the systems disarmed. Maybe they figured their nice rich neighborhoods were safe from men like him, but last he checked, an invisible fence didn’t protect the good parts of town from people like him.
He pulled a wedge from his dark jacket and worked it under the sill. He’d know in seconds if an alarm would sound. If it did, he had parked close enough to get back down the street and out of the neighborhood before the cops showed.
Jerking hard on the wedge, he forced the window to pop open. Adrenaline rushed as he scanned the yard behind him and waited for the beep, beep of an alarm system. He heard nothing but still waited, poised to flee just in case someone was home. But one minute turned into two and then five.
When he was certain no one was home, he pushed the window up higher, wincing as his bruised shoulder pinched. He rubbed pain from the shoulder, and then sucking in a deep fortifying breath, wriggled his slim body into the house. He’d been breaking into homes since Joey Welch had dared him in eighth grade to break into Mr. Mullins’s house a
nd steal milk. Even to this day he could remember how sweet that milk had tasted. Now, at twenty-five, he was a seasoned veteran who’d broken into hundreds of houses.
He moved through the living room past Chippendale sofas and tables decorated with crystal lamps and porcelain bowls. The real payoff in houses was usually found in the master bedroom or study where owners stashed jewels and money. Folks who didn’t set alarms often didn’t hide their jewels.
This was all so easy and so predictable. Gravy, baby, gravy.
The stillness of the house, once catnip to him, unsettled his nerves. He couldn’t move a step forward. His feet froze as if encased in cement.
Lenny dragged a shaking hand through his hair. The other night when he’d broken into that home in the southwest, it had been routine and easy. And then he’d heard the muffled cries of a woman coming from inside the house. The sounds, he realized, had drifted up through the air vents from the basement.
He’d been ready to get the hell out of the house when that crazy motherfucker had come out of nowhere and hit him with a club. The blow had dropped him to his knees. The second blow to the back of his head had knocked him out cold.
Why the son of a bitch hadn’t killed him, he didn’t know. It would have been easy to finish him off. But for whatever reason the guy had simply bound his arms and legs and left him.
When Lenny had woken up, he’d heard a woman screaming. The scent of burning flesh had permeated the house and he’d nearly vomited. Scared shitless, he’d pissed in his pants. Double joints and a lifetime of scrapes had gotten his hands and feet loose and he’d scrammed out of that house so fucking fast his head had spun.
Shit. Close calls were part of this business.
Even knowing that, he still couldn’t shake the sound of the woman’s screams. Jesus only knew what that motherfucker had done to her.
He’d considered calling the cops, but in the end hadn’t. He’d been arrested twice and another conviction would send him to jail for a long time.
But what rattled him more now was the fact that he’d dropped his wallet when he’d hustled out the window. He’d been a dumb ass to even take the wallet. He should have gone back to get it but the idea of running into that sick son of a bitch again kept him away. Since Saturday, he’d stayed on the move, only catnapping in his car.
“Shake if off.” He moved toward the carpeted stairs, but before he could climb the first step, the woman’s screams started echoing in his head. He jerked around expecting that crazy motherfucker. But the room was empty. “Fuck.”
Lenny raised his hand from the banister and realized he’d forgotten his gloves. Shit. He’d left fingerprints everywhere. What the hell was he thinking? He reached in his pocket and pulled out his black gloves and then slid them over trembling hands. He wiped the banister with his shirttail and then retraced his steps back to the window. He wiped all around the sill and the jamb.
As he furiously wiped every flat surface, he kept getting the feeling that he was being watched. He saw that crazy son of a bitch in every shadowy corner. A crack of a branch outside nearly made him piss in his pants. But no one was there. It was just him and the fears that had gripped him since Saturday night.
He’d thought getting back to work would put his life back on track, but now he wondered if he’d ever shake the fear that this guy would find him and do to him what he’d done to that woman.
Please. Her screams echoed in his head.
Time slipped away from him and he wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there when he shook off the funk. “Shit. Man, get a grip.”
As he turned back toward the stairs, police lights appeared in front of the house. Flashing blue and red, lights from three cars illuminated his silhouette in the window frame. He glanced back over his shoulder. He could have run and vaulted over the back fence. His limberness and quickness had been his trademark. Instead, he raised his hands, savoring an odd sense of relief.
Maybe in jail he wouldn’t hear the woman’s screams.
Just after one A.M. Donovan parked at the crime scene. He checked the recorder in his pocket, grabbed a notepad from the passenger seat and pulled a ball cap over his head. Since he’d earned a byline at the paper a decade ago, he’d never run his picture or appeared on television. In fact, he’d been a little paranoid about keeping his identity secret. He rationalized that anonymity allowed him more access to a crime scene. Except for a few cops, no one knew what he looked like.
For a moment he just stood and surveyed the scene. The firemen flooded burned-out embers with more water, making the charred beams hiss and spit tendrils of smoke. At least a dozen fire and police vehicles crowded the end of the cul-de-sac, but most of the curiosity seekers had drifted away, likely deciding that the real excitement had passed. Many would wander back in the morning.
He suspected the medical examiner had long since removed the body, so he decided to visit the ME’s office and see what he could dig up.
He recognized Detective Deacon Garrison and swallowed an oath. Garrison knew his face and resented Donovan’s negative portrayal of a victim earlier this year. Garrison had sought him out, cornering him in a coffee shop. They’d gone head to head over the story.
Garrison’s quick smile was a weapon he used to get information. Many said the city’s top cop could squeeze blood from a turnip. So if he had been given this case, it meant something.
Donovan moved up to the yellow crime scene tape. “Detective, got a minute?”
Garrison’s gaze swung around. He smiled but his stance remained rigid and closed. “Donovan.”
“The one and only.” He surveyed the charred rubble. “Looks like you got one hell of a mess on your hands.”
“They pay me to clean up the messes.”
Donovan shoved a lock of hair off his face. “So what did happen?”
“Can’t say for sure right now. We’re still sifting through it all.”
“Anything you can tell me?”
“No.”
Detective Malcolm Kier moved toward him, his muscles poised to fight. The city’s newest detective looked tired and impatient. He’d only crossed paths with Kier once or twice but the man could be a raging bull when provoked. “Who called you, Donovan?”
Donovan enjoyed pissing these two off. He shrugged, sliding long fingers into his pocket as he approached the yellow crime scene tape. “Word gets around.”
“And when I find out who is passing around the words, I’m gonna can them.” Garrison’s smile belied the ice in his gaze.
Donovan had little regard for the source’s fate because they most generally sold their information for less than one hundred bucks. As his old man used to say, if you’re going to get off the porch, you best be ready to play with the big dogs.
“Go away,” Garrison said.
Donovan saw the detective’s irritation as a good sign. Cops got irritated when they had secrets to hide. “Can’t you just answer a few questions for me? Come on, guys. Maybe sometime I could do you a favor in return.”
“No.”
“How many people died?”
“My office will be issuing a press release later today. ”
“No sneak peek?”
“Nope.”
Donovan pushed his hands in his pockets. “So I hear this place was some kind of halfway house. You talk to the director yet?”
“Let us do our jobs, Donovan.” Garrison and Kier turned and moved away.
“A little birdie told me the victim was mutilated. Did it happen postmortem?” He could have mentioned the old case he’d written about but the idea of helping Garrison irritated him.
That stopped both detectives. Garrison turned, unable to maintain even a pretense of good humor.
Bingo.
As Garrison moved toward him, Donovan pictured a prizefighter stripping off his gloves. “That birdie got a name?”
Reflex almost drove him back a step. “Can’t say. You know I have to protect my sources.”
Garri
son leveled a gaze designed to intimidate. His size added to the fear factor and Donovan struggled for calm.
“I’m right about the mutilation, aren’t I?” Donovan pushed.
“Someone is jerking your chain, Donovan. Go find a real story.”
His instincts kicked into overdrive. A story simmered below the surface. A huge story. “I’ve found one hell of a story.”
Garrison’s and Kier’s stances radiated pure fury.
Donovan possessed enough smarts to know when to cut his losses. Garrison, unlike his partner, kept a tight rein on his temper, but Kier’s temper had gained a reputation as explosive. “You’ll call me if you find out anything?”
Garrison winked. “Sure thing, sport. Consider yourself on my speed dial.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, Detective.”
“I never claimed to be smart.” Menace threaded around the words.
Donovan swallowed a smile, not anxious to go head to head with Garrison just yet. He moved toward his car, his mind ticking with the things he needed to do as he slid behind the wheel. He pushed in the car lighter.
Why dump a body here? And why the fire? Some might say coincidence linked the two stories. Fat chance. One way or another, they fit.
The lighter popped and he pressed the hot tip to the end of a cigarette. Tobacco embers glowed and smoke rose before he replaced the lighter.
Donovan puffed his cigarette and then flipped open his cell phone. He dialed and had to wait only two rings.
“What the fuck do you want, Donovan?” The gruff voice was thick with anger.
Caller ID was not his friend. “I need for you to find someone for me.”
“Who?”
“Eva Rayburn.”
“You going to pay on time? ”
“I swear.”
Silence followed and then the guy shoved out a breath. “Give me what you have.”
Donovan grinned and gave the private investigator the particulars.
“Might take time.”
“I don’t care what rock you have to dig under, but find her.”
