by DiAnn Mills
Not once had she thought about the firebug case. At the moment, she didn’t care.
Her cell rang. She glanced at the caller.
“Hi, Paul.”
“I know you’re not okay. That’s what partners are for.” Although he sounded light, she heard the compassion.
“Thanks for calling.”
“I know tough—t-u-f-f.”
She sniffed. “So do I unload the whole day on you now?”
“Yep. If I were there, I’d have a box of tissues.”
And he would. She told him about the meeting at the police station and seeing the photo of the destroyed vehicle. Learning the driver of the semitruck was drunk and charges had been filed. Then on to the morgue. “I saw Travis’s wife. Her name was Elizabeth . . . a very attractive young woman.” She swallowed to keep the tears away. “I arranged for them to be brought to Houston and buried together on the northwest side near me. They worked from home for a computer company. Good income. I visited their home. Walked through every room. Very nice. Brief chat with the social worker, and—”
“Savannah, don’t do this to yourself.”
But she had to. “What I learned is between the proceeds from the house and life insurance, the children will have their choice of colleges.”
“That’s great news.”
“They were homeschooled, and from the looks of the schoolroom, it was done well. I mean, Paul, I saw maps on the wall and three computers. Stacks of books.” The detail to the children’s education gave her a measure of comfort.
“Good. I doubt you’ve eaten, so why don’t you order room service and get some sleep.”
Her stomach twisted. “I can’t. I need to make a list of all that has to be done. What’s the status of our case?”
“Everything can wait. No new developments.”
Another tear slipped down her face. “I doubt if I can sleep.”
“Grab your iPad and let’s make the list. Then off to bed. You need your rest to handle the challenges of tomorrow.”
She reached for it, too tired to argue. “First is to talk to the social worker again. Second is meeting the kids at ten thirty at the foster home. I have no idea what will happen or how long it will last.” She fought the whirling in her stomach. “I need to look into the legal proceedings of the drunken driver. Then I need to find a reputable real estate company to handle the sale of the home. But I can’t do that until I find out from the kids what clothes and toys to bring, so—”
“Savannah. You filled your day once you met the kids.”
She nodded although he couldn’t see. “I guess so. Are you praying for me?”
“Every day for the past five years.”
“Don’t stop. I’m too numb to find the right words.”
“Promise me you’ll eat something and go to bed.”
“Let’s compromise. Food is out of the question.” Her fight was gone. Her only child lay in the morgue. She knew sleep would evade her.
* * *
At 10 a.m. the following morning, Savannah drove her rental car to a foster home in the Miami suburbs. The social worker would meet her there. The two had been on the phone at seven thirty and talked for an hour. The interstate paperwork had been completed to relocate the children from Miami to Houston.
She’d learned the children were in excellent physical health. Although she wished the school system had given the girls more time to recover from the shock of losing their parents before placement testing, rules were rules. Prime had placed three grades higher for reading and math, and Cloud needed to be enrolled in kindergarten for the fall. The foster mother reported Prime had taken over mothering the other two and hadn’t shed a tear. Cloud refused to speak and wept constantly, and Mac played in an imaginary world with his friend Spider-Man.
And there was a dog, a Yorkshire terrier named Byte that the foster mother had taken in.
“A dog?” Savannah hadn’t permitted a dog while Travis was growing up.
“He’s housebroken, a friendly animal. Yorkies don’t shed.”
She wasn’t an animal lover. “What else can you tell me about the children?”
“Mac is still in diapers and attached to a pacifier.”
“So the dog is potty-trained but not my grandson?”
“Exactly.”
Now Savannah was about to meet three little people who were frightened, alone, and had no idea who she was. She could only imagine the confusion and fear that hovered over them.
The foster home had a traditional style and professionally landscaped yard. The moment she arrived, an attractive woman emerged from a midsize car—obviously the social worker.
She waved, and her eyes held the sadness of the situation. “Are you ready to meet the children?”
Chapter 3
In the living room of the foster home, Savannah knelt in front of the frightened children and one furry little dog. She didn’t know what to say or do. Interrogating criminals was more her expertise . . . and she’d never been the nurturing type.
How could she care for these children and continue her career? Only two years until retirement. She’d refused to think about what would happen then because now the future wasn’t about her.
As much as she ignored the truth, she feared the task and didn’t really want it. She took the hand of Prime, a beautiful blonde-haired child who resembled her mother. “You’ve done a very good job taking care of your sister and brother. Thank you. I’m your grandmother, your daddy’s mother.”
The girl said nothing, her face emotionless.
Savannah focused on Cloud, the image of her sister, and wiped a tear from the little girl’s cheek. “I know you’re sad, and I am too. It’s okay to cry.”
Last she turned her attention to Mac. His likeness to Travis stole her breath. He wore Spider-Man pajamas. Not only did he have a pacifier in his mouth, but one in each hand. All featuring the comic book character. “Mac, I see you like Spider-Man. I do too. I’m kind of a superhero because I fight bad guys. We can have fun together.”
He glared as if in disbelief, and she’d exhausted her words. She patted Byte’s head. God, help me. I have no idea how to handle this tragic situation.
* * *
On Friday, Savannah boarded a plane with her charges. Prime was sullen. Cloud cried, Mac wore his Spider-Man pajamas, and Byte was in a pet carrier. She’d arranged to ship their bedroom furniture, clothes, toys, and other items the kids had indicated were important. She also requested the Realtor send Travis and Elizabeth’s personal belongings and memorabilia that might have sentimental value. Savannah had little time to sort through everything like she wanted.
She had children to raise.
She had a case to solve.
When was the last time she slept?
Now to figure out sleeping arrangements until their furniture arrived. For certain her three-thousand-square-foot house had just shrunk. But she did have a huge backyard.
Seating arrangements on the plane prompted tears from Cloud and a migraine for Savannah. The flight attendant moved passengers so Prime and Savannah could sit across from each other in aisle seats. Cloud and Mac sat beside Savannah.
She swallowed three ibuprofen without water. A glance to her left showed Prime studying her. The child, like the other two, had said little since they met.
“Do you hate us?”
Savannah startled. “Of course not.”
“But you’re not happy.”
“Your daddy was my son.”
“And now you have us. That’s why you’re mad.”
She breathed in, praying for the right words. First she wanted Prime to talk, and now she wished the child hadn’t voiced such a hard question. What did Savannah feel?
“Your forehead’s crinkled.” Prime nibbled at her lip. “That means you’re mad.”
Savannah’s thoughts went blank. “Maybe I’m scared.”
“You told Mac you’re a superhero.”
She nodded. “I’m an FBI agent.�
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“I know. Daddy told us. He said you keep people safe by putting bad guys in jail. If you’re not afraid of them, why are you afraid of us?”
Surprise jumped from her stomach. “I’m scared because I don’t know if I can do a good job like your mommy and daddy.”
Prime shrugged. “I feel like I’m in a bad dream.”
“Me too.” Open your heart, Savannah. “Thank you.”
Prime studied her. “For what.”
“For being honest. Let’s get to know each other.” Savannah patted her iPad. “I have your birthdays but little else. What’s your middle name?”
“Elizabeth, like Mommy.”
Savannah smiled, the throbbing in her temples slowly fading. “What’s Cloud’s?”
“Cloud is her middle name. She’s Savannah Cloud, after you.”
A sensation akin to bewilderment whipped through her body. “How . . . very nice.”
“And Mac’s is Mac Alexander, after my daddy’s daddy.”
Oh, Travis, I know more about you in death than I did in life. She stuffed her emotions into a small corner of her soul. Until a few days ago, she was all business. Tough. Got the job done. Just the facts. Now she didn’t recognize herself because—
“What’s it like, fighting bad guys?” Prime’s quiet voice jerked her attention.
She reached across the aisle and took her granddaughter’s hand. “It means I’m always watching people to make sure they’re not planning something evil.”
Prime’s eyes widened. “Even now?”
“Sure. But the airport security checks everyone.”
The little girl leaned over. “Do you carry a . . . ? You know.”
Savannah nodded. “The number one rule in our house will be not to touch my purse.”
“I get it. What are we supposed to call you?”
Savannah had no clue. For certain not Grandma or Meemaw or Mimi or Granny. After all, she wasn’t that old. “I’m not sure. Something different. Not the typical things.”
“Savannah means a grassy place near the tropics with not many trees.”
“How did you know that?”
“Daddy told us.”
Had he truly forgiven her? “Not sure your definition helps.” She turned to Cloud and Mac. “What would you like to call me?”
Cloud’s face was splotched from crying, and Mac seemed engrossed in a conversation with Spider-Man. Poor babies.
“Give ’em time,” Prime said. “I’ll talk to them, tell them you aren’t mad.”
“Thanks. Prime, I need to know your brother and sister better. So caring for them is not such a burden for you.”
“Watching over Cloud and Mac helps me . . . not to hurt.” She pressed her lips together in a way Travis used to do when he was contemplating something. “You still don’t have a name. My friend at church calls her grandmother Gigi.”
“Too sugary for me.” She should be the one coming up with a name instead of a child. What had happened to her in-control personality?
“Savannah is too hard for Mac to say. I know! What about Savvy?”
Brilliant, and she said so. “Savvy—I love it.” A disgusting odor met her nostrils. Surely not. “Mac, have you filled your pants?”
He grinned, his dark eyes sparkling. “No. Spider-Man did.”
* * *
Savannah settled into her cubicle on Monday morning. Her life had swung from talking kid language to FBI jargon, and the transition from one to the other made her feel like she had split personalities.
Savannah’s eyes stung like she’d been on twenty-four-hour surveillance. Instead, she’d slept in the same bed with three needy children for the past three nights.
Praise God her pastor had gotten them into the church’s day-care program. The tearful good-bye this morning hit her harder than she’d expected.
“We have a suspect,” Paul said from the doorway. He’d been a saint over the past few days, even met them at the airport.
“Has he been brought in?”
“Waiting for us in an interview room. Caught on a Walmart camera buying gasoline containers and a new pair of tennis shoes, size 10½ D.”
“Whoa. That’s promising.”
“But he doesn’t wear the arsonist’s shoe size.”
She grabbed her iPad and joined him in the hall. The suspect was Daryl Jacobs, a middle-aged black man with a record long enough to wind around the block. They observed him through the one-way glass. He sat straight but not stiff. His face devoid of emotion.
“Ready?” Paul grasped the doorknob.
“Sure.” Savannah wanted to arrest this guy. Her bone-tired body threatened to download exhaustion.
Paul entered first. “Mr. Jacobs, I’m Special Agent Paul Winston, and this is my partner, Special Agent Savannah Barrett. We have a few questions about your purchases at Walmart this morning.”
Jacobs frowned. “I have a lawn-mowing business and needed to replace gas cans.”
“What about the shoes?”
“One of my guys asked me to pick him up a pair. I’m a 13½.” He leaned forward. “I’ve seen the news, Mr. Special Agent. I don’t torch churches or limp.”
Nothing in his features indicated deceit.
“Odd you were filmed with the same items our firebug’s using.”
Jacobs leaned in. “I checked my calendar. Those churches were burned in the early hours of Monday mornings.”
“And you were home in bed?” Savannah said.
“Nope. Not married and I don’t have time for a girlfriend.”
Paul laughed. “Don’t think you were mowing lawns at three in the morning. Why not confess and make this easy on yourself?”
“I’ve never provided lawn service to those churches or submitted a proposal.”
Savannah tapped her pen on the table. Did Jacobs practice disguising his body language? “Then enlighten us. What were you doing on those nights?”
“Working. On the weekends I unload trucks for Walmart and Sam’s. Punch in and punch out. Check it out for yourself.” He sneered. “I have a record but none of those charges are for lighting fires. Look somewhere else, Mr. and Mrs. FBI.”
Chapter 4
After Daryl Jacobs’s alibi was verified and he’d left the interview room, Savannah studied Paul. He was pacing, his typical manner of thinking through a case. He ran his fingers over what was once hair. She had no idea what color, but he claimed blond, just like Brad Pitt. The job had made him go bald.
“We’re batting zero,” he said. “We have two outs, two strikes, and no one on base.”
“I thought we had this case nailed.” Savannah pulled up the case notes on her iPad. “Jacobs has to be connected. The similarities can’t be a coincidence. Let’s get his work record, a list of his employees, and a background on his business. And see if the Better Business Bureau has any complaints.”
“Already have it. Check your e-mail.”
She was so far behind.
“The CliffsNotes are two of his guys have records. One, Jesse Mendoza, doesn’t have an alibi. Neither does he wear the right shoe size or limp. He let us search his home without a warrant. So cooperative that I wonder if he knows more than he claims. We have a tail on him.”
“Anything else?”
“Jacobs’s priors consist of burglaries and drugs. I’d like to dig deeper, see if a church-related incident occurred. He’s married and has two sons. Been clean for five years.”
“Was he just cocky?” she said. “Why didn’t he ask for his attorney?”
Paul jammed his hands into his pant pockets. “Either he was telling the truth or covering his tracks to appear innocent.”
“His confident eye contact sailed over the top. When we confirmed his status during the fires, he lifted his palms and shrugged, giving a mixed message.”
“I noted the eye contact,” Paul said. “But not the latter.”
“I want to see the interview transcripts of all the churches’ staff. The answer is there . .
. somewhere. Did you look into any of my theories?” She forced a smile.
“Your smile doesn’t match your red eyes.”
She refused to admit her lack of sleep came from three imps. Whining didn’t become anyone. “I’m frustrated that we can’t make an arrest.”
“The real estate idea went nowhere, and investigators are searching through all the church memberships for a common name. Nothing yet. E-mailed all the reports to you just before walking in.”
“Has anyone done a demographic on race? Everything from German and Japanese to black to Vietnamese and Middle Eastern.”
“Not yet, but it makes sense.”
She typed in the request to the FIG. “Can we talk to the pastors about the race angle? Possibly a hate-crime angle that we’ve missed?”
He nodded.
“Did the media coordinator release anything?”
“Just the typical community support. I sent you the transcript.”
She lifted a brow. “My attention’s been divided. Meant to go through all the e-mails last night, but it didn’t happen.” She dug her fingernails into her palms. “This isn’t like me, and I don’t know how to get back into the swing of things.”
He bent over the desk. “How’s the home front?”
She blew out her exasperation, quite unladylike. “Two outs, two strikes, and no one on base.”
“Still got your sense of humor.”
“My brains have taken a nosedive.” She swallowed. “I dropped off the kids at day care this morning and filled out the paperwork. Praise God, I had their shot records. No guarantee Byte will hold his bladder until we get home. Can’t be much worse than changing diapers on a three-year-old, though. Furniture should arrive tomorrow morning. Getting the kids into their own beds will help.”
“What about their emotions?”
“All over the place. Our pastor’s supposed to call this afternoon with a counselor recommendation.”
“For all of you?”
“I’m fine, and I trust Pastor Reynolds to locate the best children’s psychologist. It’s the kids who have been through a horrible ordeal.” She avoided his gaze.
“Travis was your son. Your only son.”
