by LENA DIAZ,
He waved at the shelves in the hutch, crammed full of colored glassware. In spite of the fire and the deluge of water that must have rained down, the solid, heavy hutch had done its job, protecting its precious cargo.
“Is any of this worth anything?” he asked.
“What makes you think I’d know? Just because I’m a woman?”
“You caught me. I made an entirely chauvinistic assumption that, being a female, you’d have been raised with the requisite knowledge of dishes. So, are they? Expensive?”
Her mouth curved into a reluctant half smile. “I wish I could throw that back in your face, but you’re right. I do know dishes. This looks like Depression glass.”
She put on one of her ever-present latex gloves and took out a pink plate, turning it back and forth to catch the light.
“Well?” he asked.
“I was checking to see if it’s a reproduction. It’s not. See the bubbles in the glass, and the slightly wavy look? Those are imperfections typical of Depression-era glassware. My mom collects this stuff, same pattern—Cabbage Rose. And yes, to answer your earlier question, it’s expensive. People spend their entire lives trying to collect complete sets. Some of the pieces are really rare and hard to find. At auction, this shelf alone could bring hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars. I would guess everything in this hutch could go for tens of thousands of dollars.”
“That rules out burglary as a motive,” Matt said. “If someone set the place on fire to cover up their crime, they wouldn’t have left thousands of dollars of dishes in here. Which makes it much more likely we have the right Sharon Johnson.”
“Maybe they didn’t know what the dishes were worth.”
“Doubtful,” Matt said. “Even though I don’t know much about the value of antique glassware, I suspected these were valuable. I think most people would assume that.”
Tessa replaced the plate and gently closed the hutch door. She peeled off the now soot-blackened glove, turning it inside out before shoving it into her suit jacket pocket. “I think the fact that the second floor burned so evenly, without burning the first floor, makes it obvious that arson wasn’t just an afterthought to a bungled burglary. The perp used some kind of accelerant all along the perimeter, but only on the second floor. This was deliberate, with a specific goal in mind.”
“To kill Miss Johnson.”
“Or to burn her body after killing her, to ensure no forensic evidence would remain.”
“Then I’d say arson was secondary to the primary goal, a means to an end,” Matt said. “The perp was here for one thing, murder.” He headed back into the family room.
“Where are you going now?” Tessa sounded exasperated as she followed him again.
Matt waved toward a group of pictures. “There’s a black lab in these photos, and food and water dishes in the kitchen. Sharon Johnson had a dog. Where is it?”
WHEN TESSA CONTACTED the police to ask about Sharon Johnson’s missing pet, the chief was still too busy to take her call. His assistant routed the call to Detective George Jimenez.
“The chief sends his apologies, Special Agent James,” the detective said over the phone. “We’ve got an all-hands-on-deck situation right now. But he assigned me to assist you. I’m at your disposal. I can meet with you now, if you want to come to the station.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Tessa leaned back against the rental car. “But we’re already in front of Sharon Johnson’s house. We’d like to interview a few of her neighbors while we’re here, to get some background information on the victim.”
“How about I meet you there and take you wherever you need to go?”
“That’s very kind of you. We appreciate your help.”
“Not a problem. ETA ten minutes.”
True to his word, Detective Jimenez pulled up to the curb exactly ten minutes later. He unfolded his lanky frame from his unmarked Charger and shook Matt and Tessa’s hands before sliding his sunshades into his front shirt pocket.
“Thanks for coming,” Tessa said.
“My pleasure. It’s not every day I get to meet a couple of FBI agents. Happy to help and see how you do things.”
“I’m not FBI,” Matt corrected him. “I’m a consultant.”
“What kind of consultant?”
“Private investigator. I specialize in cold cases.”
The detective rocked on his heels. “Cold cases, huh.” He glanced at the recently burned- out house behind him, then stared thoughtfully at Tessa. “What kind of cold case brought you here? A serial arsonist?”
Tessa shot a warning glance at Matt. “We don’t have enough evidence to make that assumption. All we have is Miss Johnson’s name on a letter. We don’t even know if this is the same Miss Johnson.”
Matt raised a brow, probably surprised she wasn’t sharing the Ashes, Ashes part of the letters. But since Tessa didn’t know this detective, she wasn’t about to trust him with those kinds of details. She didn’t want to risk having that information posted in tomorrow’s headlines.
“You mentioned you wanted to interview some neighbors. You want to ask them about the night of the fire?”
“That would be good, yes, but we’re also curious about what happened to Miss Johnson’s dog. It doesn’t seem relevant, but you never know what fact might prove important later on.” She belatedly realized she’d just quoted the same line Matt had said to her yesterday when discussing the significance of twenty-three letters.
His rueful grin told her he’d realized the same thing.
“Dog?” the detective asked, looking puzzled.
“There were signs of a pet in the, um, yard. Knowing what happened to the dog might give us one more piece of information about how the perp gained access to the house.”
“The yard, huh?” He glanced toward the house again.
A warm breeze stirred the leaves of the nearby trees, causing the ripped seal on the front door to flutter like a white flag. Tessa steeled herself for the fallout when the detective looked back at her. But instead of quoting statutes and threatening her with arrest, his lips twitched as if he were trying to conceal a grin.
“Well now, I wouldn’t know about any pets she may have had. That wasn’t in any of the reports. But her sister lives not too far from here. If you’d like to talk to her, I can take you. I’ll make a quick call, see if she’s available.” He motioned toward his car. “I also brought the case file. You can flip through it on the way.”
“Sounds great. Thank you.”
He smiled and held his passenger door open for her. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
The syrupy warmth in his voice had Tessa blinking in surprise. From the way Matt was suddenly grinning, he must have interpreted that warmth the same way she had.
Wonderful.
She frowned at Matt and slid into the front passenger seat. He got into the back, and soon they were driving down the residential two-lane road.
While Jimenez called the sister, Tessa flipped through the file.
When he ended his phone call, he confirmed the sister was home and willing to see them. Then he chatted about everything from the weather to the traffic they’d encountered driving in from the airport. Matt was noticeably silent. Tessa turned in her seat and jerked her head toward the detective, letting Matt know she wanted him to help carry on the conversation.
He gave her an innocent stare, as if he didn’t know what she meant.
She gritted her teeth and turned back to the folder. The coroner’s report was the next document. She quickly skimmed through it.
“Tessa, the detective asked you a question.”
She looked up at the sound of Matt’s voice, which sounded suspiciously close to a laugh.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Jimenez patted her hand. “No worries. I was just wondering if you two had lunch already. There’s a little diner up ahead. We could stop and grab a bite before heading to Miss Johnson’s sister’s house.”
She tugged her hand out from u
nder his and picked up one of the pages, pretending that had been her intent when she really just didn’t want to encourage his unwelcome interest in her.
“Thank you, but I’m not really hungry.”
“I could eat,” Matt said.
Tessa narrowed her eyes at him. “We’ll eat later. You know Special Agent Casey wants us to hurry and get back,” she lied.
Matt was enjoying her discomfort far too much. Before he could dig a hole she couldn’t get out of, like mentioning that Casey didn’t even know they were here, she hurried to ask the detective another question.
“The cause of death on the coroner’s report is listed as inconclusive. Can you tell me about that? She wasn’t killed by the fire?”
Matt scooted forward in his seat, paying close attention now, all signs of teasing gone from his suddenly serious expression.
“The coroner said the body was burned too badly, no lung tissue left to tell us if she inhaled any smoke. There weren’t any marks on her bones that might indicate she’d been stabbed. No bullet fragments or shell casings. And the skull was intact, no indication of blunt force trauma. For all we know, she could have died in her sleep. Or she could have even been suffocated. No way to be sure. And toxicology was inconclusive because of the fire damage.”
“We may want to perform our own toxicology tests if you’re okay with that,” Tessa said.
“Of course. You’re welcome to anything you want. We have no leads. The best the coroner could do was rule the death suspicious. If we went to court, we couldn’t even prove the victim was murdered. Proving arson is easy, but without corroborating evidence to show the perpetrator knew anyone was home, we can’t go for first degree. None of that matters, though, unless we have a suspect, which we don’t.”
The enthusiasm Tessa had felt when they’d first learned about an arson case involving a victim whose name was on one of the letters was beginning to fade. Charleston PD hadn’t come up with any suspects. That didn’t bode well for her and Matt’s chances.
“Other than her sister, did she have any family?” Tessa asked.
“She lived alone, but she did have a large family, many of whom live here in Charleston. We interviewed her local relatives, and all the neighbors on her street. Everyone said the same thing. She was well-liked, no enemies.”
“What about suspicious strangers in the neighborhood? Cars that didn’t belong?” Tessa asked. “I noticed a neighborhood watch sign. Did anyone report anything in the weeks or days before the fire?”
“I assure you, we asked all of that and more in the interviews we’ve conducted so far,” he said, sounding offended by her questions. “But you’re welcome to review the reports and re-interview anyone you want. Everything is in that file. I’ll make sure you get a copy.”
“Thank you.” She tried to inject warmth into her response. She didn’t want to offend the local PD, not when she needed their help. “I appreciate it. You and the chief have certainly done everything you could to assist us with our investigation. Hopefully we can return the favor, with this case or perhaps another down the road.”
“Hmm.” He sounded noncommittal.
He slowed the car and turned down a long driveway that ended in front of a much smaller version of what Sharon Johnson’s house must have looked like before the fire.
Sharon’s sister was red-eyed and looked exhausted, but she welcomed them into her home and eagerly answered their questions. She was obviously hopeful that Matt and Tessa could come up with more than the police had. When asked about her sister’s missing dog, she told them she’d found it in her backyard the night of the fire. All she could assume was that the fire had scared the dog and it had bolted and run to her house. Sharon had brought the dog over many times during visits, so the dog would have known the way. But the sister did admit she was surprised the dog could jump over her fence. It had never done that before or since.
None of them really knew what to make of that. Had the killer taken the dog to the sister’s house to keep the animal from getting hurt? If that were the case, then he either knew Sharon—and where her sister lived—or he’d been stalking her for some time before the fire so he knew her habits and the people she regularly associated with.
After politely refusing an offer of sweet tea and homemade coconut cake, they thanked her for her help and returned to the burned-out house that had been Sharon Johnson’s home.
“Do you think this is the right Sharon Johnson?” the detective asked. “You mentioned earlier you weren’t sure if she was associated with the cold case you’re investigating.”
Tessa pursed her lips and thought about it. “I’m inclined to think so, but I’m not entirely sure. Matt, what do you think?”
He stared at the remains of the house as if he could find his answers there. “I think it’s too early to say.”
She blew out a breath of frustration. “Well, thank you again, Detective. I guess we’ll follow you back to the station and get that folder copied. Then we’ll catch a flight back to Savannah.”
They shook hands, and Tessa was just about to get into the rental car when she called out to the officer. “Detective Jimenez?”
He turned around. “Yes?”
“You mentioned an all-hands-on-deck emergency earlier. Do you mind telling us what that emergency is about?”
His posture stiffened. Suddenly the affable officer seemed anything but.
“A tourist found a body in a campground about fifty miles north of the Charleston city limits, in a small town called Priceville. Normally we wouldn’t head that far from our jurisdiction, but the ID and clothing found near the body indicate the victim could be the chief’s missing father-in-law. Our coroner and several officers are there now. The chief’s on his way.”
“The father-in-law’s been missing for a while, I assume, since you aren’t sure of the identification?” Tessa asked.
He shook his head. “No, he’s only been missing since last night. The reason they can’t ID the body is because it was burned.”
Tessa tightened her fingers around the car door. “That’s awful. Please give the chief our condolences. Do you mind telling us his father-in-law’s name?”
“John Crawford,” the detective said. “Why?”
Matt’s eyes widened and Tessa sucked in a sharp breath.
John Crawford was the name on one of the letters that had been mailed to the FBI field office in Savannah.
Six months ago.
Chapter Six
* * *
TESSA WOULD HAVE gladly spent her entire career without experiencing what she was experiencing now—the putrid-sweet, vile odor of charred human flesh. Nausea churned her stomach and she had to breathe through her mouth to keep from gagging as the medical examiner prepared John Crawford’s body for transport.
Beside her, in the shadow of pine trees in the small clearing, Matt stood with his arms crossed, apparently unaffected by the sights and smells twenty feet away. Was he really that strong? Or was it a guy thing, a front, as he pretended to be strong when he really wanted to retch?
“Are you breathing through your mouth?” she whispered. She didn’t want the police chief or his men on the other side of the clearing to hear her. They were huddled together like a family in mourning as they waited for the body to be removed.
“Now why would I do that?” Matt whispered back. The slight nasal quality to his voice told her that he was.
She rolled her eyes.
He grinned, then promptly sobered. There was nothing about this horrifying scene that warranted smiles and he was as aware of that as she was.
Although she’d displayed her FBI badge when she’d arrived, she and Matt had done nothing else but stand and wait. They’d kept a respectful distance, but she’d still overheard enough of the police chief’s conversation with the coroner to gather that they didn’t have official verification that the body was John Crawford. But the inscribed wedding band on his left hand was enough for the chief. He had no doubts.
“The Sharon Johnson letter was sent before she was killed. And if this man is the same victim listed on our John Crawford letter,” Tessa whispered to Matt, “you know what that means?”
“That not all of the twenty-three people listed in those letters are dead yet. He’s sending the letters before he kills them.”
“Right,” she whispered. “He’s sending us his murder list, his future murder list.”
“He may have sent some of the letters after killing the victims, and some before. We don’t know enough yet to arrive at any conclusions. You’re making serious assumptions.”
“Sometimes assumptions are all we cops have. Just go with it.”
His mouth tightened. He didn’t look pleased with that answer.
As soon as the body was loaded onto the gurney, the police chief and his small band of officers approached Matt and Tessa. After introductions were made, the chief faced Tessa with his hands on his hips.
“The FBI doesn’t just show up uninvited to help local law enforcement unless there’s some kind of benefit in it for them. And you’ve shown interest in two of my cases, both involving death by fire. You’re after a serial arsonist, aren’t you? Tell me you know the bastard who did this.”
She didn’t think telling him that she had no clue who the perpetrator was would make him feel better, so she chose a vague answer instead. “The investigation is ongoing and I really can’t share any details at this time. Can you bring us up to speed on what happened here?”
He didn’t look happy with that, but he gave her a crisp nod. “John is . . . was . . . my father-in-law. He was honest, hardworking, built Crawford’s Grocery and Drugs from the ground up, ran it for nearly thirty years before selling the land to a gas station and retiring. He lived in Priceville his whole life. He was a man’s man. Everyone liked him. He never did anything bad to anybody. Not a damn soul.”
