Flight

by Laura Griffin

  He kissed her. It was soft and sweet, and her heart squeezed as he eased back. He watched her with those intense blue eyes, and she felt a pang of yearning. Working together wasn’t the only thing that worried her. With every day she spent with him, she could feel herself becoming more attached. She couldn’t help it.

  He took her hand and placed it on his shoulder. “Hold on to me.”

  She gave him a suspicious look. “Why?”

  He slid his arm under her. “Because.” She gasped and clutched his neck as he stood up. “The things I want to do to you are better in bed.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Nicole desperately needed a shower and some food. Her stomach had been grumbling for an hour, but the shower was going to have to come first. Nicole’s clothes and her hair and even her skin smelled like smoke. She hadn’t set foot inside the lighthouse, but after three hours of working the scene, the campfire smell permeated everything.

  She swung into the parking lot of her building and pulled into a space, cutting the engine with a sigh. Even her truck would probably smell like smoke tomorrow.

  From the cup holder her phone chimed, and she instantly knew who it was.

  “Shit.” She checked the screen. Emmet.

  “Hey, sorry I blanked,” she told him. “I meant to call you.”

  “Where the hell are you? You said you were coming.”

  “I got sidetracked. You guys still at Finn’s?”

  “I’m just leaving. Why’d you get sidetracked?”

  “McDeere was on patrol and spotted that white pickup we’ve been looking for,” she said. “It was at the Windjammer Inn.”

  “You’re talking about the Frisbee guys.”

  “Yeah, we went over there and interviewed them. Talked to all three of them separately.”

  “I thought the witnesses said they left the park ten minutes before the fire started.”

  “Yes, but we wanted to get these guys on record anyway.”

  “You get anything?”

  “Not really.” She sighed. “They said they weren’t even aware of the fire. Said they were at Dairy Queen downtown and had no idea what the sirens were all about.”

  “You believe them?”

  “McDeere interviewed the manager, and he confirmed that they were there eating, and the timing checks out. I mean, I don’t really see these guys torching a building and then sitting down for burgers and Blizzards a mile away, do you?”

  “You never know.”

  She felt a surge of irritation as she got out of her truck. “Well, I got their contact info, so feel free to haul them in and take another crack at them if you want.”

  “Chill out. I’m just saying, you never know. People are fucked up.”

  Nicole tamped down her irritation as she crossed the parking lot. Yes, she was being prickly. But she’d spent the last two hours working after Emmet and everybody else had knocked off for the night. Not that she had really been in the mood for Finn’s, but still.

  “How’s Miranda doing?” Emmet asked, changing the subject. “I heard McDeere took her home.”

  “Yeah, he said she seemed pretty out of it. I think she’s in shock.”

  “Well, can you blame her?”

  “Nope.”

  Nicole glanced at the wall of mailboxes and decided to skip it. It would just be junk mail and bills. She turned to go upstairs and nearly tripped over Drake’s scooter at the base of the steps.

  “Dang it, Drake.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Nicole checked her watch. It was too late to knock on their door. She should probably leave the damn thing down here to get stolen, so he’d learn his lesson.

  On the other hand, his mom worked two jobs and had given it to him for Christmas.

  “So, I’m going back down there tomorrow morning with Calvin,” Emmet said.

  “You mean the lighthouse?”

  Nicole grabbed the scooter and headed toward the storage locker beside the maintenance closet.

  “Yeah. We’re going to see if we missed anything,” he said. “You want to come?”

  “What time?”

  “Early. We’re meeting at six thirty, before any gawkers show up.”

  So much for sleeping in.

  “Yeah, I’ll come.”

  She passed a row of dumpsters. The garbage reeked, and trash day wasn’t until Tuesday.

  “See you there, then,” Emmet said. “You can bring the coffee.”

  “Ha. Bring your own coffee.”

  Nicole ended the call and fumbled with her key chain as she approached the storage locker. It consisted of a walk-in cage made of chain-link fencing where tenants stored beach chairs, bikes, and water toys. Nicole had stashed a boogie board in there a year ago but hadn’t used it since.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the shadowy walkway between the maintenance closets. She didn’t like being down here alone, and especially not at night. She unlocked the gate and pulled it open with a creak. The wind gusted and she got another whiff from the dumpsters. It smelled like spoiled meat.

  She went still.

  A low buzzing noise filled her ears. She set the scooter down as an icy trickle of awareness slid down her spine.

  Nicole put her hand on the butt of her pistol and stepped over a yellow pool noodle. Heart thrumming, she scanned the row of bikes and wagons and half-inflated rafts. Slowly, silently, she pulled her weapon from the holster.

  The buzzing grew louder, the stench stronger. She wasn’t breathing now as she stepped around a rusty red wagon and peered into the shadows.

  “What the . . . ?”

  Nicole blinked into the dimness. At first she didn’t understand what she was looking at.

  And then, all at once, she did.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Miranda awoke to the low murmur of conversation. She felt a zing of panic and sat up in bed.

  Joel.

  She closed her eyes as the memories flooded back. The fire, the snakebite, the clinic.

  Joel pinning her beneath him on the sofa.

  Miranda glanced at Benji on the floor beside her. Joel had brought him in here, bed and all, without even being asked, and settled him right beside her nightstand.

  Miranda got out of bed and grabbed a T-shirt from the chair. She slipped it over her head, careful not to pull her bandage. Her arm was sore, and the ibuprofen she’d taken earlier had completely worn off.

  She padded barefoot into the living room. Joel stood beside the coffee table zipping his pants and cradling the phone on his shoulder as he spoke. Miranda halted in the hallway. His beautifully sculpted torso looked silver in the moonlight, and desire rippled through her.

  He turned and spotted her as he ended the call.

  “I have to go.”

  “So I gathered.” She walked over, tugging the hem of her T-shirt. “Who was on the phone?”

  “Brady.”

  He buttoned his pants and grabbed his holster off the table, and she watched as he buckled his belt with brisk efficiency.

  “Anything serious?” she asked.

  He tucked his wallet into his pocket. “I don’t know all the details,” he said, evading her question.

  Miranda walked him to the door. He stopped and gazed down at her.

  “Sorry I have to leave,” he said.

  “I understand.”

  “Lock up behind me.”

  “Of course.”

  She watched him go as she flipped the lock. Then she glanced at the clock in the kitchen. It was 12:25. If not for the callout, would he have spent the night?

  He hadn’t kissed her good-bye. She felt a twinge of hurt even though she knew she was being ridiculous. He’d been distracted.

&nbs
p; She returned to her room and knelt beside Benji. His poor nose looked swollen and miserable, but he was snoring peacefully, so maybe the painkiller still hadn’t worn off. Miranda stroked his silky head between his ears. She thought of how Joel had lifted him from her car and carried him up the stairs as though he weighed nothing—not unlike the way he’d carried Miranda off to bed an hour ago.

  Her throat felt parched, and she realized she was starving. She couldn’t even remember what she’d been planning to do for dinner tonight. Her sunset photo shoot felt like days ago, rather than a few short hours.

  She went into the kitchen and grabbed a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter from the pantry. As she took down a plate, her phone chimed on the counter.

  She eyed it, dreading what she already knew.

  She picked up the phone and cleared her throat. “Miranda Rhoads.”

  “Hi, it’s Nicole Lawson.”

  Miranda put away the bread and peanut butter. “What’s up?”

  “We could use your help at a crime scene. You know the Driftwood Apartments north of the marina?”

  “No.”

  “Two-story building. Blue with white trim?”

  “Okay, yes, I know it.”

  “We’d like you to meet us here ASAP. Bring your kit.”

  “I’m on my way. What’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  Miranda hurried into the bedroom to dress, taking the time to put on socks and sneakers instead of flip-flops. She retrieved her evidence kit from the hall closet, then grabbed her camera and a diet soda before heading out. She hated leaving Benji, but hopefully she would be home by the time he woke up.

  Miranda twisted her hair into a quick bun and secured it with a scrunchie before getting on the highway. The night was muggy but clear, and the nearly full moon cast a silver glow over the marshes. Miranda popped open her soda and took a long swig, hoping the caffeine would snap her awake.

  She still felt groggy from her dream. She’d been in a burning house, running from room to room searching for a way out, but each time she ran for an exit a flame leaped into her path. Finally, she found a window with one of those inflatable yellow slides used to evacuate airplanes. But just as she started to climb on, the slide vanished.

  The dream seemed silly now, but it had been searingly vivid, so vivid she could taste the smoke in the back of her throat.

  Miranda gripped the steering wheel as she thought of the lighthouse and the petrifying feeling of being trapped. Her stomach clenched, and the faint scent of smoke tickled her nostrils.

  Joel had held her through her meltdown. He’d listened to her and soothed her and then distracted her with mind-blowing sex.

  But it was more than sex. He’d been kind and sensitive and genuinely concerned about Benji. And she added all of that to the list of things she liked about him.

  As if she needed more.

  She spotted the apartment building, and nerves fluttered inside her as she put on her turn signal. She’d given in to temptation. The rapid-fire series of events had obliterated her willpower, and she’d slept with Joel. Had it been a mistake? She was about to find out.

  She turned into the apartment parking lot, which was packed with police vehicles. Her stomach tightened with dread as she surveyed the scene. This was no car theft or apartment burglary. She passed a trio of black-and-white patrol units. She spotted a space beside Joel’s gray pickup, but she drove past it and found another space on the edge of the lot closest to the street. Miranda grabbed her camera from the back seat and looped the strap around her neck. Then she picked up her tackle box and got out.

  The apartment complex was built on stilts, with the apartments on the second level and the bottom level devoted to storage closets and empty space. The building had an open staircase on each end, and an area near the back staircase had been cordoned off with yellow tape.

  Miranda glanced at the breezeway, where tenants in bathrobes and warm-up suits loitered beside the railing, watching the scene play out below. Several more onlookers stood in the parking lot, but they were set apart from the police, as if they’d been herded away from the heart of the action.

  Miranda crossed the lot to a group of cops who—thank goodness—were not tromping around inside the yellow tape and making her job harder. Scanning the faces, she saw many she recognized, including Chief Brady, who was talking to Joel.

  Joel’s gaze homed in on her as she approached. Did the chief know that when he’d called his lead detective to this scene he’d been in Miranda’s bed?

  She tried to make her expression neutral as she neared the officers—all men, she couldn’t help but notice. This was exactly the circumstance she’d wanted to avoid.

  “Miranda.”

  She turned around to see Nicole Lawson walking toward her. She was dressed in the same clothes as earlier—a navy LBPD polo and beige tactical pants, with her duty weapon holstered at her side. Miranda immediately noticed her gloves and shoe covers.

  “Thanks for getting here so fast.” Nicole stopped in front of her. Her nose was pink and peeling, and her auburn hair was pulled back in a long braid. “The scene’s back there.” She nodded toward a row of dumpsters. “The body’s in the storage locker. See the wire mesh near the recycle bins?”

  “Show me.”

  Miranda followed her toward the yellow tape, skimming the area for potential paths of entry and exit. She halted near a tall hedge of oleander.

  “Hold up,” Miranda said, setting down her kit.

  She opened the tackle box, zipped into a white Tyvek suit, and then pulled paper booties over her shoes.

  “You have a mask with you?” Nicole asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re gonna need it. It’s bad.”

  Miranda found a plastic bag with several paper face masks. She took out a vial of orange oil and applied some to the mask with an eyedropper.

  “You want one?” she asked Nicole. “It helps with the smell.”

  “Absolutely. Thanks.”

  Miranda handed the mask to Nicole and prepared another. She arranged it on her face and then started photographing the area. Walking all the way around the flower bed, she took photos of the soft dirt around the hedge. Then she returned to Nicole.

  “Okay, ready,” she told her.

  They ducked under the tape, and Miranda immediately caught the stench, even through the orange oil. Nicole led her across a concrete slab decorated with brightly colored sidewalk chalk. They passed a pink tricycle and went through a narrow corridor with closets on either side, both marked MAINTENANCE. At the end of the corridor Miranda turned left to find a storage closet made of wire mesh. The door had been propped open with a brick.

  “Who found the body?” Miranda asked.

  “I did.”

  She whirled around. “You did?”

  “I live upstairs. I was stashing something in here when the smell hit me. I didn’t touch anything, obviously, but at first glance, it looks like a gunshot wound or possibly a stabbing.”

  Miranda turned to face the metal gate, which had a heavy-duty lock.

  “You have a key to this gate?”

  “All the tenants do. I propped it open with a brick because it kept blowing shut. It locks automatically.”

  Miranda studied the gate, paying particular attention to the lock. It didn’t appear damaged.

  Shoot your way in, shoot your way out.

  It was the mantra that Miranda taught to her forensic photography students. Miranda took dozens of pictures of the door, including the lock. Peering through the wire mesh, she scanned the contents of the closet: bicycles, beach chairs, half-inflated rafts.

  “No sign of forced entry.”

  Joel’s voice had her turning around. He wore latex gloves and paper shoe covers.

  “T
here are some footwear impressions in the flower bed on the other side of the closet,” Miranda said.

  His eyebrows arched. “By the hedge there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t touch anything,” she said as he moved toward the bushes. “And don’t step in the dirt.”

  He gave her a pointed look. “I know.”

  Miranda took a few more photographs of the door lock and then stepped inside the closet. No footprints on the concrete, no blood trails.

  The breeze kicked up, and she held her breath against the stench. Even with the mask on, it was nearly overpowering.

  Miranda stepped over a foam pool noodle and sidestepped a bicycle with dirt-caked tires. She snapped a few pictures.

  The low noise sent a chill down her spine. Flies. Lots of them. Gritting her teeth, she lifted her camera to take a few more shots as she moved deeper into the closet. The space back here was dim and airless. Flies zipped toward her, and she batted them away.

  She saw the shoes first. Men’s basketball sneakers, laces untied. Miranda took a photograph, looking at the body through the viewfinder, as if the lens might somehow shield her from the grotesque scene.

  Black flies swarmed the face, concentrating their attention on the nose and mouth. Miranda stepped closer and took a picture, and the flash illuminated him.

  She gasped and lowered her camera. “Oh my God.”

  Joel stepped up behind her. “What is it?”

  “Joel, it’s him.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Joel watched Miranda with an eagle eye as she rummaged through the back of her Jeep. She’d spent the past few hours ignoring the flies and the god-awful smell as she photographed every inch of the crime scene. And then she’d taken out her evidence kit and lifted prints from the gate.

  “Joel?”

  He turned to Brady. “What’s that?”

  “I said, it’s confirmed,” the chief told him. “They checked the wallet. Alexander Kendrick, twenty-three.”

  Joel turned to watch as a pair of ME’s assistants loaded a gurney into the back of their van.