Drawing Fire
Page 1
“This hard-edged and chilling narrative rings with authenticity. Cantore is a retired Long Beach, Calif., police officer with twenty-two years of experience on the force, and fans of police suspense fiction will be drawn in by her accurate and dramatic portrayal.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL on Visible Threat
“Janice Cantore provides an accurate behind-the-scenes view of law enforcement and the challenges associated with solving cases. Through well-written dialogue and effective plot twists, the reader is quickly drawn into a story that sensitively yet realistically deals with a difficult topic.”
CHRISTIAN LIBRARY JOURNAL on Visible Threat
“Due to Cantore’s background, her characters resonate with an authenticity not routinely found in police dramas. Her knack with words captures Jack’s despair and bitterness and skillfully documents his spiritual journey.”
ROMANTIC TIMES on Critical Pursuit
“Cantore is a former cop, and her experience shows in this wonderful series debut. The characters are well drawn and believable, and the suspenseful plot is thick with tension. Fans of Lynette Eason, Dee Henderson, or DiAnn Mills and readers who like crime fiction without gratuitous violence and sex will appreciate discovering a new writer.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL on Accused
“Cantore provides a detailed and intimate account of a homicide investigation in an enjoyable read that’s more crime than Christian.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY on Accused
“Janice Cantore’s twenty-two years as a police veteran for the Long Beach Police Department [lend] authenticity in each suspense novel she pens. If your readers like Dee Henderson, they will love Janice Cantore.”
CHRISTIAN RETAILING on Abducted
“The third series entry by a retired Long Beach, Calif., police officer offers plenty of procedural authenticity and suspense that will attract fans of Dee Henderson.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL on Avenged
“Cantore . . . delivers another round of crime, intrigue, and romance in her latest title.”
JOYCE LAMB, USA Today on Avenged
“Set in a busy West Coast city, the story’s twists will keep readers eagerly reading and guessing. . . . I enjoyed every chapter. Accused is a brisk and action-filled book with enjoyable characters and a good dose of mystery. . . . I look forward to more books in this series.”
MOLLY ANDERSON, Christianbookpreviews.com
“Accused was a wonderfully paced, action-packed mystery. . . . [Carly] is clearly a competent detective, an intelligent woman, and a compassionate partner. This is definitely a series I will be revisiting.”
MIN JUNG, freshfiction.com
“Abducted is a riveting suspense . . . [and] the many twists and turns keep the reader puzzled. The book is a realistic look into the lives of law enforcement officers. Abducted is one book I couldn’t put down. Can’t wait to see what Carly and Nick might be up to next.”
PAM, daysongreflections.com
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Drawing Fire
Copyright © 2015 by Janice Cantore. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of car and beach copyright © Alejandro Moreno de Carlos/Stocksy.com. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of emergency copyright © Michael Ireland/Dollarphotoclub. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.
Illustration of folder by Hakan Ertan/Creative Cloud.
Designed by Jennifer Ghionzoli
Edited by Erin E. Smith
Published in association with the literary agency of D.C. Jacobson & Associates LLC, an Author Management Company. www.dcjacobson.com
Hebrews 4:13 in chapter 1 taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Hebrews 4:12 in chapter 13 taken from the New King James Version,® copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Proverbs 21:15 and Hebrews 4:13 in chapters 15, 16, and 66 taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Drawing Fire is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cantore, Janice.
Drawing fire / Janice Cantore.
pages ; cm. — (Cold case justice)
ISBN 978-1-4143-9668-2 (sc)
I. Title.
PS3603.A588D73 2015
813'.6—dc23 2015002460
ISBN 978-1-4964-0664-4 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-9671-2 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-0665-1 (Apple)
Build: 2016-06-21 08:55:32
DEDICATED TO DORIS & JIM CANTORE,
now in heaven.
Thanks for a safe home, many wonderful memories, and guidance that led me in the right direction. Miss you both; look forward to a blessed reunion.
I’D LIKE TO ACKNOWLEDGE the help of Detective Stephen Jones (ret.) and Commander Lisa Lopez, the encouragement of Don Jacobson, my agent, and the overall support of Kitty Bucholtz, Marcy Weydemuller, Cathleen Armstrong, Kathleen Wright, Wendy Lawton, and Lauraine Snelling, my writing friends, for always being there to listen to the ideas as they bounce around—some good, some not so good—and to always tell the truth about what is what.
And thanks to Erin Smith, my awesome editor, and all the great people at Tyndale that I am blessed to be able to work with.
“Peace does not dwell in outward things, but in the heart prepared to wait trustfully and quietly on Him who has all things safely in His hands.”
ELISABETH ELLIOT
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapt
er 66
Preview of Burning Proof
Preview of Catching Heat
About the Author
Discussion Questions
TWO OPEN CASES, two dead ends.
Two faces stared back at Abby Hart as she studied the chart she’d made chronicling the progress in her open homicide investigations.
Or lack of progress.
I won’t let them go cold.
Turning from the chart to her desk and swallowing a bitter taste in her mouth, she closed the Dan Jenkins murder book and placed it on top of Mavis Snyder’s. She’d been working these homicides hard without any leads—or suspects, for that matter—shaking loose. Snyder had been on the board for a month, Jenkins two weeks.
What am I missing?
She stood and walked to the coffee counter and drained the last bit of the pot into her mug. The Long Beach homicide office was empty; day shift had ended two hours ago. Homicide didn’t field a night shift. Instead, there was always someone on call after hours. This week was Abby’s turn in the “guaranteed to be awoken in the middle of the night” slot. A sip of the stale, acrid coffee finally convinced her she needed to surrender and go home as well.
After ditching the nasty dregs and rinsing her mug, she gathered her things and headed out, turning off the lights and locking the door behind her. Her thinking had been clouded lately, and it didn’t help that she was exhausted. For the last two nights the same nightmare had sent her sleep screaming into the abyss, leaving her tired and sluggish. The dream was always about fire. Abby hated fire. Fire, and murder, had stolen her parents from her when she was only six, and the disturbing nightmare dredged up old, painful shadows of memories.
Abby calling for her daddy and getting no answer.
Smoke burning her eyes, her throat.
Blistered hands holding her, saving her, then melting away.
A treasured stuffed animal consumed by angry, red tongues of fire.
Worst of all, the dream reminded her of how frozen cold the case of her parents’ murders was and threatened to remain. For twenty-seven years investigators had come up empty.
Abby’s single-minded interest in solving the case had propelled her to homicide investigator status after eight years on the police force. But once there, other influences had kept her away from the very personal case. She vaguely wondered if the dream was telling her she should sit on the sidelines no longer.
No homicide case should go unsolved—not her parents’, not any case currently on her desk.
Not on my watch, she vowed as she started her car and drove home.
“I don’t need you to protect me by keeping the harsher aspects of your job from me.” Ethan frowned and his displeasure vibrated across the miles as Abby rested her chin in her palm. They’d been chatting on Skype—Abby in her home in Long Beach, California, and her fiancé, Ethan Carver, in Western Africa on a mission trip.
“I’m not doing that. You’ve said you didn’t care to hear the details of my cases.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t tell me what’s wrong when you’re having a bad day.”
Abby rubbed her brow, hating this fine line she suddenly had to walk with Ethan. She’d looked forward to a happy talk about their approaching wedding, the first discussion in two weeks, and he’d turned it into an argument.
Or was it something I said?
She didn’t even know how this had started. “You think my job weighs on me—it doesn’t. It’s what I do. Chasing killers is as much my mission field as building homes in third world countries is yours.”
“Stop. Don’t compare the two. I bring hope. You deal with depravity. Your world is dark and dangerous, and I don’t want it to destroy you, Abby.”
His complete dismissal of her work left her speechless for a moment. This resistance to her career was new and growing: the closer their wedding date, the more he voiced his thoughts along those lines. Abby was sure she loved Ethan and just as sure she was not going to quit being a cop now or when they were married.
“Ethan, I—”
She could hear the music begin, the haunting strains of Cher’s classic “Bang Bang,” the song that served as her ringtone for homicide callouts.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, chest tightening as she reached for the phone. It was three thirty in the morning her time—the Skype session had been arranged for Ethan’s schedule. Abby had prayed she’d be spared an early morning callout this once. Guess not.
Ethan’s frown deepened and further increased Abby’s discomfort. This uneasiness with her job assignment was burgeoning from a pimple to an abscess.
“I do bring hope to people,” she said while Cher sang. “The hope of justice for their loved ones.”
He shook his head. “I think it’s more about you and one case that you let define you.”
She bit her lower lip, not believing he went there when she couldn’t respond. “I have to answer.”
“I know.” The frustration faded from his features, replaced by resignation. “Be safe. We’ll finish this later.”
Oh, good, Abby thought as she answered the call.
“We have another elderly victim. Similar to last month.”
Wide-awake, Abby cleared her throat. The watch commander was on the line, and he’d called her himself; he hadn’t left it to dispatch. She knew why: this was bad. A cat burglar had murdered octogenarian Mavis Snyder. If this homicide showed the same MO, then they had a monster in the city on the prowl for defenseless old women. The definition of serial killer echoed in her mind—“the unlawful killing of two or more victims by the same offender.”
“We could have a serial killer on the loose.” He voiced her thoughts.
Abby had been trained not to jump to conclusions, but two similar killings a month apart was not a good sign.
“I’ll have to take a look before saying for sure.”
“Confirm as soon as you can.”
Abby promised she would and sped to the address she’d been given, though the exigency was long past. She was struck by how close the address was to the west police substation as well as being close to the address of the Snyder murder. Her stomach tightened as the ticks began to mount up that this had been committed by the same offender—a very bold offender.
To the WC, it was an important line on his incident log. To Abby, it was a slap in the face, a taunt that she was not doing her job. The Snyder case had attracted the nickname the “granny murder” in the homicide office. A priority, it occupied the lightest murder book because up to now she had nothing to go on in the way of evidence.
Until tonight. The upside of this callout—if there was ever an upside to murder—was that the watch commander indicated there was a witness on scene who could provide the first lead.
She arrived at the small bungalow, thankful for the early morning hour and that the place was not crowded with press and curious neighbors.
Abby reclipped her hair to keep it out of her face and briefly checked her appearance in the rearview mirror before climbing out of the car. The department allowed casual dress for early morning callouts, which for Abby meant pressed black jeans, a belt with a holster for her Sig Sauer .45 auto and cuff case, a homicide polo shirt, and a dark-blue police Windbreaker. She stuffed her handheld radio into a back pocket and grabbed her kit. A tepid, early summer breeze rippled the Windbreaker as she closed the car door. An immediate observation set her on edge as she approached the first officer on the perimeter.
“Where’s the witness?”
“He went to the hospital with Officer Woods. The woman with him got hurt when they tried to chase the suspect. Woody said he’d bring the wit back as soon as they know how bad the lady’s injury is. I have his information here.” He handed Abby a neatly filled-out field interview card.
Abby read the card, but any peace she might have felt at knowing that the witness would be back evaporated when she saw his name. Warning bells exploded in her head. “Seriously? This is my witness?”
/> The uniform grinned. “Yeah. Isn’t it cool? He’s like Chuck Norris or Jason Bourne.”
Abby glared at him until the grin faded and he went back to his perimeter position. If arguing with Ethan hadn’t left her tweaked, the name of this witness would have.
One bright spot shone in the predawn darkness: Woody had responded to this call. Robert Woods, or Westside Woody as he was affectionately known, was a legend on graveyard patrol and, to Abby, a mountain of stability and police wisdom. Not only was she certain he’d bring the witness back, he’d help her put things into perspective. Right now she needed a strong focus.
The victim was hers now, a responsibility Abby took as seriously as a mother caring for a toddler. Justice for the dead, closure and assurance for the family that their loved one was not just a number on a crime log—these were goals Abby tenaciously clung to, earning her the nickname Superglue.
Closing out all but the scene she was preparing to enter, Abby took a deep breath and got her head into the investigation. She began with the outside. The victim’s residence was a small, probably two-bedroom home neatly kept in a neighborhood of shabby homes with barred windows. She surveyed the exterior of the house and walked around to the alley, noting by the screen carelessly tossed on the ground that the point of entry was an unbarred window there. At this she frowned. Even if homeowners didn’t like barred windows, they usually had the sense to bar the windows on the alley side. But it was a moot point; Abby couldn’t ask the resident now.
Returning to the front door, she observed the other houses close by. Abby knew from Woody that before her time, this westside Long Beach neighborhood had been solidly middle class and Mayberry-like. But the freeway and the demise of the Navy base, coupled with an increase in shipping and truck traffic and the migration of a different demographic, had changed the vibe. Now, a diverse mix of street gangs dominated, and drug trade flourished, while decent, low-income folk hid behind the bars and tried to get by.
She walked up two steps, across the porch, and into the house. A narrow hallway led to the living room, and there she saw the body. A frail-looking old woman in a flowered nightgown lay on a frayed area rug. Like the previous victim, she’d been posed flat on her back, hands lying one on top of the other on her stomach, as if she were sleeping peacefully.