Hidden Fire, Kobo

by Terry Odell

  "We could test it," Mike said. "Do a chemical analysis."

  "If you want," she said. "But I don't have any Garrigues left to compare it to. However, I'd bet my reputation that this is a genuine Garrigue."

  "We can deal with that later," Kovak said. "Keep going."

  "Okay," Sarah said. "To make one of these, you'd throw the mug on a wheel and make the whole cup at once, except for the handle, which you'd make separately and attach later. There's no point to making the pedestals separate from the mug. It would be tricky to get it to fit right for the firing."

  "So, these broke and someone glued them together," Kovak said.

  "That's what Randy thought, too. But I doubt it. Think about it. If you broke a piece of pottery, what are the odds it would break evenly?" She gestured to the other mug. "Twice."

  "She's right," Mike said.

  I want to see the actual break." She looked at both men. "I was going to chisel it apart at the glue line. Any suggestions?"

  "A vertical cross section would help too," Mike said.

  "You're right," Sarah said. "I should have thought of that." But then, she hadn't been thinking last night. "What kind of a blade do you use to get a clean cut?"

  "Abrasive cutter," Mike said. "However, we don't have one."

  "What about Lester's Rock Shop? He'll have a rock cutter," Kovak said.

  "Should work," Mike said. "Let's go."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Randy sat at his desk, contemplating the notes he'd pinned to the walls of his cubicle. He'd spent the morning interviewing people who'd called in about the identity of his body if their description held the remotest possibility of being their victim. He looked at the dwindling stack of pink message slips with mixed emotions. One the one hand, he was almost finished and could check the item off his list. On the other, he had few possible leads.

  He rifled the last stack. The night people. He'd abandoned that chore when Maggie had called last night. He sighed. Tonight, then, on the one-in-ten-million chance someone actually knew something useful.

  "Hey, Detweiler."

  Randy glanced up at a weary-looking Hannibal peering over the top of the cubicle. Rumpled shirt, loosened tie and a stubble-covered jaw.

  "Hannibal," Randy said, nodding in acknowledgment.

  "Got anything on our victim?"

  "Eliminating leads is going well," he said. "At this rate, I'll be right where we started in a day or two. Maybe sooner."

  Hannibal guffawed. "I've never heard 'I've got zip' put quite like that. I like your positive attitude."

  "It's about all I've got."

  Hannibal stepped into the cubicle and perused Randy's pinned-up notes. "How about our killer? ViCAP give you any leads?"

  Randy tapped the file folder where he'd placed Kovak's faxes. "Too many, but I'm narrowing them down. I'm going to share the information with Charlotte Russell. Maybe she can add something new. So far, I've got possible connections to five murders."

  Hannibal's eyes widened. "Around here?"

  Randy snorted. "Yeah, right. Make it easy. The closest was in Kansas. One in DC, one in Florida, Chicago, some one-horse town in Louisiana. I called the local law enforcement offices to compare notes. I also added the pottery connection to see if that opens anything new."

  "Good work," Hannibal said. "You get any lab results?"

  Randy recapped what Dave had given him. "If we have a suspect, we have exemplars for comparison, but nothing that gives us much about who he is. I'm going to work on the vehicles reported at the scene next. I've got the tire tracks. Maybe we'll get lucky and find something unique."

  "Long shot."

  "True." Randy pointed at another file folder. "Missing persons reports are still our best bet. The victim's blood has been sent to the National Missing Persons Database."

  "Matching mitochondrial DNA to family members. Longer shot."

  "And it could take forever," Randy added.

  Hannibal rubbed his eyes. "Yep. I was hoping the bridgework would be a clincher, but nothing there either."

  "We're at about a week from the estimated time of death. Why no report that he's missing?"

  Hannibal lowered a hip to Randy's desk. "How far out have you gone?"

  "I put out the request nationwide."

  "Yeah, but that assumes there are people who have time to compare what you sent to their records. How far have you actually made personal contact?"

  Randy detected a hint of skepticism in Hannibal's tone. He looked through his notes. "Washington, Oregon, Idaho, California, New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona, Utah—"

  "Okay, okay. I get it. You've been busy."

  Damn right. He felt the burden of the entire Pine Hills Police Department on his shoulders. He picked up a legal tablet, flipped to a blank page and clicked his pen. "Back to our missing person hypothesis. Why wouldn't there be a report?" He wrote "Report filed, haven't found it" next to the numeral one. He wrote a two, then looked at Hannibal. "He's supposed to be away?"

  "Right," Hannibal said. "On vacation, a business trip. Camping. Someplace where not checking in wouldn't send up red flags. What else?"

  Randy slid into brainstorm mode, feeling more like part of a team. "No family? Homeless? Nobody to miss him?"

  Hannibal nodded. "Another possibility. Or maybe nobody gave a damn. Some people are just plain nasty."

  "And sometimes I think we meet them all."

  "Too true." Hannibal gazed into the distance. "Reminds me of a case in Florida. Took fifteen years to solve that one."

  Intrigued, Randy put down his pen. "Go on."

  "Wife killed her husband, shoved him in the freezer for six months, then buried him under the garage. Her kids were in on it. Guy was a scum and nobody reported him missing. Fifteen years later, the kids killed the mother, but this time they got caught. Cops found out about the missing father and dug him up."

  Randy looked at the sea of notes pinned to his walls. "I hope I don't have to spend fifteen years on this one. How'd they break the case?"

  "Apparently the mother told the kids she was going to talk. They killed her, but someone did report the mother missing. Detectives followed a money trail."

  "Sounds like a real loving family," Randy said.

  "Wonder what Christmas was like at their place." Hannibal's cell phone rang. He pulled it from his belt, checked the display and swore under his breath. "Gotta go. Keep it up."

  Randy watched Hannibal trudge away, then returned to his lists, letting his mind glide back into brainstorm mode. There was a question he'd been meaning to look into, but it eluded him. He'd long since learned that chasing after things that niggled at his brain merely sent them deeper into hiding. He spent the next hours reviewing reports, making more notes, adding notations to existing notes, pinning more bits to his wall, moving them around and wondering when the missing piece would show up.

  He returned from a fruitless trip to the fax room as his desk phone rang. "Detweiler."

  "Eldridge. My office. Now."

  Eldridge's tone was far too reminiscent of the chief's. Randy grabbed a couple of Tums to chew on the way.

  * * * * *

  Sarah followed Kovak and Mike Conner into the lab. Mike snapped still pictures of the interior of the mugs, one neatly sliced in two by Lester's cutter. Sarah asked if they could try to pry the base from the mug on the second one, without sawing it. A few deft taps of a hammer and chisel had popped it right off.

  "All right, Sarah," Kovak said. "Tell us what we're looking at."

  "I can touch them, right?" Kovak and Mike took charge and she hung in the background, letting them do their thing, almost like she wasn't there. Lester had barely acknowledged her presence, either. If there was a cop around, everything else faded away. Maybe it was a cop gene.

  "Help yourself," Kovak said, apparently content to let her lead for the time being.

  She picked up each piece, confused at what she saw. "It doesn't make sense," she said.

  "What doesn't make
sense?" Mike asked.

  "This," she said. She pointed at the base end of one of the complete halves. "These were obviously made in two pieces, then fitted together after the first firing. The repair makes it hard to be certain, but I guess the parts were attached somehow, then glazed and refired, but why?"

  "That's not normal, I take it," Kovak said.

  "Not at all. Makes the job much harder. The join would be under the glaze, so it wouldn't be obvious at a casual glance. Heck, probably not even if you were looking for it. If they hadn't broken, I don't think I'd ever have noticed. But it explains the even break."

  She ran her finger along the inner contours where the pedestal joined the mug. "But this is weird."

  "What?" Both men spoke in unison.

  "Give me a minute. I'm trying to figure out how he made the mugs. He'd have thrown the whole thing. Then cut the pedestal off with a clay cutter. It's either nylon or wire with wooden handles at both ends." She raised her gaze to the men who were listening intently. "Like the things in the movies they use to strangle people."

  "Not just the movies," Kovak muttered under his breath.

  Right. Kovak probably saw a fair share of death. She suppressed a shudder, then went on. "So, here, it seems they cut the mug from the pedestal as well. But the base would be a solid piece of clay. Now, if the clay's too thick, firing is tricky, so the potter will hollow out the bottom of a base. But this is strange." She pointed at an indentation at the top of the pedestal. "They hollowed out the top, too. It still seems like it would make it harder to fit the two pieces together."

  "Could it have something to do with weight?" Kovak asked.

  "Your guess is as good as mine," Sarah said. "I still wonder why he went to all that trouble. He's a superb potter and knows what he's doing, but it's a lot of extra work and he would have had to throw away a lot of bad ones. If the pieces don't dry exactly the same size, it'd be almost impossible to join them so it wasn't obvious."

  She held up the pedestals, examining the edges where they'd been attached. "I'm willing to bet these were cut apart after the mug was finished. Then glued together with household glue. That would never hold up in firing."

  "Maybe these are older pieces," Mike suggested. "Experiments?"

  "Speculation is getting us nowhere." Kovak picked up a mug half and tossed it in his hand. "I think I need to find out how these mugs got to Saint Michael's. Find the owner and ask. Maybe there's a simple explanation."

  Sarah felt her face heat. "You don't have to mention that I kind of walked off with them, do you? I can give you replacements, but they won't be Garrigues."

  Kovak's mouth twitched in an obvious attempt to hold back a smile. "Works for me. I'll tell her one of the workers broke them last night and wanted to replace them."

  "I'll go get some," Sarah said.

  "My treat," Kovak said. "I could use a change of scenery. I'll pick up two mugs at Thriftway on my way over." He turned to Mike. "You have a printout of the originals so I can show them around?"

  "I have them," Sarah said. "But I'd like copies so I can try to match this mug to my inventory. Can I take the mugs, too?"

  "How about we keep one, you take one?" Kovak said.

  "Thank you." Sarah wrapped one and put it in a plastic bag. She noticed Kovak putting the other into a bag and sealing it with evidence tape.

  "Do you think this is a real clue?" she asked.

  "No idea. But better to have it here safe and toss it if we don't need it than need it and not be able to use it," Kovak said.

  Randy always said most of his job was paperwork. She was beginning to understand.

  With Kovak off to Saint Michael's, Mike Connor doing whatever he did, and the mug parts in a bag, Sarah went to her shop.

  By four, she'd divided her customers into three lists. Locals, out-of-areas who had provided contact information, and what she called drop-ins. Some had left names in her guestbook, so she put a star by those names. Others were simply names on receipts. Sometimes the items they bought triggered a picture in her head, but even though it had only been a few days, far too many names didn't hook up with faces. Nothing connected with the photos Kovak had showed her. She picked up the phone and called Jennifer.

  "Can't today," Jennifer said. "But I don't have any classes after two tomorrow. How about then?"

  "I'll be here, even though we're closed. Use the back entrance."

  She hung up and stretched, trying to ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. Definitely, a hot bubble bath was on her agenda. A gnawing in her stomach reminded her she'd had a late breakfast but no lunch. She'd call it a day, go home and have an early dinner. Soak in a bubble bath. She smiled. Randy had a huge tub. Maybe she'd take her bath over there and surprise him. She could stop for groceries and make the steak dinner he'd wanted to have the other night.

  She put away her paperwork and contemplated the mugs. Air pockets caused clay to explode in the kiln. Yet these obviously hadn't. Maybe he'd fired them all separately and glued them together afterward, although for the life of her, she couldn't come up with a reason.

  Someone knocked at the back door. She checked her watch. A UPS delivery? She remembered an outstanding order for some Halloween craft items. Spirits lifting at the thought of more merchandise to display, she set the mug pieces on the counter and hurried to the door.

  Two uniformed deputy sheriffs stood there, polite smiles on their faces. "Sarah Tucker?"

  "Yes?"

  "Sorry to bother you, ma'am. Routine check. We need to verify your business license, clear up a few things. Shouldn't take long."

  "Everything's in order," she said. "I've paid all my fees." Had she? She must have. She always did. They were due in June and if she'd missed it, someone would have notified her.

  "Part of the licensing agreement, ma'am. You know that."

  She couldn't recall anyone ever showing up to inspect the store. But David had always handled that side of the business and she might have simply ignored it. "I guess it's all right. What do you need?"

  "A look at your business license. You have it displayed, as required by law, correct?"

  She breathed a quick sigh of relief. "Of course. It's right over here." She led them to the counter. "There it is." She pointed to the framed certificate on the wall. One of the deputies reached into his pocket for a piece of paper and unfolded it. He fingered one of the mug halves.

  "Interesting. New art form?" He smiled.

  "No," she said. "An experiment, I guess you'd call it."

  The deputy motioned to his partner, who examined the pieces. They exchanged a hooded glance. Something about it made sweat prickle at the base of her spine.

  "Mrs. Tucker, we're going to need you to come with us."

  Chapter Nineteen

  "You're what?" Randy bolted upright. "On what grounds?"

  "Sit," Eldridge said, as if Randy were a recalcitrant puppy.

  Glaring, Randy lowered himself into the chair. He sucked in a breath from somewhere around his knees to regain his composure. Hell, he didn't work for Eldridge. What was going on? He waited. So did Eldridge. Deferring to the man's rank, Randy broke the silence.

  "With all due respect, sir, I'm not sure this is a legitimate course of action."

  "Tell me about That Special Something," Eldridge said. "You know the owner."

  Apprehension washed over him. He kept his face neutral. "Sarah Tucker. Yes, I know her. It's no secret."

  "You got a thing going with her, right?"

  Randy bit back a caustic retort. Slowly, it dawned on him that Eldridge was interrogating him, playing bad cop. "We're involved, yes," he said.

  "You don't want to see her get hurt, do you?"

  Memories of her kidnapping flooded him. He gripped the arms of the chair. "What do you mean? Has something happened to her?"

  "Relax, Detweiler. It's not what you're thinking. But I need to know about your interest in her boutique."

  Survival instinct and his training took over. "Are y
ou questioning me about a case, sir? As a suspect? Should I call a representative? Because I'm not going to answer any more questions unless I know what it's about."

  Eldridge raised his hand. "Let's walk."

  Clamping his jaw shut, Randy accompanied Eldridge to the side stairwell. The man's cowboy boots clattered on the metal stairs as they descended. At the base of the stairs, Eldridge pushed the steel exit door open and wended his way through the parking lot to a blue Subaru. The car gave a beep as Eldridge clicked the remote. "Let's roll."

  Ten minutes later, they were parked at a sandwich stop. Having given up on getting anything more from the lieutenant until he was ready to talk, Randy followed the man inside. He perused the menu above the counter and ordered an Italian combo and a soda. When he reached for his wallet, Eldridge stopped him. "On me," he said.

  "Thanks. I'm going to hit the head," Randy said.

  He took his time, calming himself. He would ride this out. Wait to see what was going on. But visions of Sarah in trouble refused to disappear. Randy rejected the notion that she was in physical danger. Eldridge would never keep that from him. So it had to do with her shop. Had it been hit again? But if so, why leave him in the dark? So much for calming himself. He was in worse shape now than when he'd come in. He leaned over the sink, cupping handfuls of cold water and splashing his face. It didn't do much.

  He yanked a paper towel from the dispenser, dried himself and threw it in the trash. The wadded towel plopped into the receptacle. Randy wished it wasn't such a damn quiet process. He resisted the urge to kick the plastic container. That wouldn't make enough impact, either. Only a mess.

  In the café, he found Eldridge seated at a table against the far wall, one with a clear view of the entrance. Two large cups sat on the table, condensation beading on their waxy surfaces. "I got you a cola," Eldridge said.

  Tempted to say he wanted root beer, not cola, Randy begrudgingly accepted the drink. It's what he would have chosen, but he didn't like the idea that Eldridge got it right. Eldridge had taken the seat against the wall, leaving Randy little choice but to sit with his back to incoming clientele.