Fireproof Page 7

  “Stan said something about pressure in the skull building up enough to blow it off the body.”

  “Yeah,” Racine added with a roll of her eyes. “Gives new meaning to snap, crackle, and pop.”

  “Only the skull looks bashed in. Has a hole about the size of a fist.” Tully held up his own to emphasize how big.

  “You’re thinking he killed the person inside, too. But then why leave one body out by the Dumpster?”

  “Maybe the one inside was some poor schmuck who was sleeping there. Maybe a homeless person who saw him.” Racine’s turn to shrug.

  Truth was, they couldn’t answer any of those questions until they started piecing together the trace evidence or found out who the victims were.

  Maggie’s phone started ringing. She pulled it out and was going to send it to voice mail when she saw the caller ID. She shot Tully a look. “You told Gwen?”

  “I haven’t talked to Gwen since midnight.”

  “Racine?”

  “Gwen Patterson is not on my speed dial.”

  “But Ben is?”

  Racine’s eyes went wide. Busted. Her head turned, hands went up in surrender. No denial.

  Maggie finally answered her phone.

  “Hey, Gwen.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. A few stitches. That’s all. How in the world did you find out?”

  “I’m watching the news. They were showing the fire. Then you were trying to take away some TV crew’s camera.”

  “They showed that on the news?” Maggie glanced at Tully. He pulled a small plastic cartridge from his pocket.

  “Just as you’re trying to ask them something, a building explodes into flames behind you. They said you were rushed to the hospital. Are you sure you’re okay? And why am I hearing about this on TV? Or do I need to wait for Jeffery Cole’s profile piece on you tonight to find out?”

  “Profile piece?”

  “An hour long. You either intrigued him or really pissed him off.”

  That’s when Maggie’s call waiting started beeping in her ear.

  “I’ve got another call, Gwen. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Are you really okay?”

  She hesitated too long, and before she responded Gwen added, “Please be careful.”

  Maggie took the next call without looking at her caller ID.

  “This is Maggie O’Dell.”

  “O’Dell. I just heard what happened.”

  It was her boss. But Assistant Director Kunze didn’t sound angry. It was worse—he sounded concerned.

  CHAPTER 18

  “You didn’t tell me anything about a profile piece.”

  Sam Ramirez paced the narrow space in the sound studio. Their feature on this morning’s fire had made the national circuit.

  “Big Mac loves the idea,” Jeffery told her from his perch beside Abe Nadira, whose long fingers were playing the computer keyboards as smoothly as if they belonged to a musical instrument.

  He was referring to Donald Malcolm, the bureau chief who had taken over programming when ratings dropped last year.

  To Nadira, Jeffery said, “You can search and use footage from our affiliates, right?”

  “Yes, I can. As well as any syndicated sources.”

  “Jeffery, the feds are already going to be pissed I didn’t give them this morning’s film. Do you really want an FBI agent gunning for you?”

  “She already has it bad for me, Sam. You saw her. She has a major hard-on for me.”

  “No, somehow I missed that.”

  Sam rubbed her hand over her face. She was tired. She wanted to go home. Her clothes and hair—hell, probably her skin, too—all reeked of smoke. Jeffery had showered and changed. He kept spare shirts and trousers in his locker, all of them immaculately pressed.

  The man was a neat freak when it came to his appearance. Probably an occupational hazard from being in front of a camera. Even in third-world countries he managed to have creases in his trousers and gel in his short-cropped hair. In fact, she had been surprised this morning when he showed up with a brown stain on his shirt cuff. He’d shrugged when she pointed it out, but she saw him tuck it up into his jacket later.

  Sam brushed at the grass and cinder stains on her jeans when she really wanted to peel them off and throw them in the washing machine. She shouldn’t have taken off her ball cap. Her unruly curls flew around her face, wild snakes of hair that smelled like burned toast. She wouldn’t blame Nadira if he threw her out of his editing studio, but Jeffery’s excitement could be contagious and Nadira had it bad. Though you’d never be able to tell. The man looked perpetually bored. His mouth remained a thin line. His knobby shaved head stayed put while his half-lidded eyes darted along from one computer monitor to the next in line, three rows of them, five screens in each row.

  In fact, neither man noticed her presence despite her pacing behind their captain chairs. Their attention was focused on the computer images.

  “By the way,” Jeffery said without looking at her, “good job on keeping the film. Even I didn’t see that coming.”

  “I learn from the best.” Actually her mother would say that the Diablo was rubbing his evil off on her. “Ever since Afghanistan I keep a spare.”

  Two years ago, when Jeffery managed to get them embedded with some U.S. troops, Sam shot some amazing footage of a tribal court carrying out justice on two of the village’s women, a mother and daughter. Their Afghan sponsors were not pleased. A huge argument started, and in the middle of the drama Sam sensed what was coming. Without anyone noticing, she inconspicuously switched out the footage in her camera with film she already had in her pocket. When one of the Afghan soldiers demanded the film, Sam opened the camera and grudgingly handed it over. She watched as he destroyed it, smashing it to bits with his rifle butt, right in front of them.

  That footage ended up winning a feature for her and Jeffery, sweeping award after award but also winning the assurance that they could never return to Afghanistan.

  “So what footage did Dudley Do-Right end up with?” Jeffery asked.

  “I had extras made of that zoo feature we did last year.”

  He swiveled back to grin up at her. “Lions and tigers and bears? Oh my. And what will you tell him when he comes knocking?”

  “It was an honest mistake.” She shrugged, palms out, mimicking a gesture Jeffery recognized as one of his, and he nodded with a bigger grin. “You’re always telling me it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. I told you, I learn from the best.”

  “Now you’re giving me a hard-on.” It was Jeffery’s highest compliment.

  But he was already spinning back to the computer monitors.

  “Why don’t you go on home for a few hours, Sam?”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, you deserve it. You did good. We don’t have anything until the documentary interview later.”

  When she still didn’t make a move he waved his hand over his shoulder. “Go. Get a shower. You don’t want to smell worse than the prison inmates. Take a nap for all I care.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  She could use the break. Jeffery had woken her shortly after midnight. She had gotten only an hour of sleep. She was starting to feel it, but Jeffery hadn’t gotten any more sleep than she had and the man looked energized.

  Sam could see his latest obsession unfolding on the monitors. Like a dog with a bone, it was too late to tell him to let go of this one. But something told her this one wasn’t the same as his other obsessions. It could make or break his career. It was a waste of her time to say anything. She knew Jeffery Cole well enough to know he’d do whatever he wanted.

  Sam started for the door before Jeffery could change his mind. She shook her head, glancing one last time as monitor after monitor began filling with different images of Agent Margaret O’Dell.

  CHAPTER 19

  “I’m fine,” Maggie told her boss, repeating the mantra as her breakfast did an unpleasant flip. “J
ust a few stitches.”

  Tully caught her eyes and frowned. Racine stepped away. Okay, so she wasn’t that convincing.

  “I heard you made a trip to the ER. Are you okay?”

  But had he seen the news yet? He actually sounded concerned, so no, he probably hadn’t heard about the news clip.

  “If this assignment is too …” He paused as if looking for the correct wording. “If it’s too difficult considering the circumstances—” And he let the rest hang.

  This was not typical Kunze. For more than a year he had berated, dogged, and insulted her. Several times Maggie had considered transferring to the Department of Homeland Security at the suggestion of Deputy Director Charlie Wurth. He and Maggie had worked together on several cases. She liked Wurth, respected and trusted him, which were three things she could not say about Kunze.

  But in many ways DHS would be starting over for her. She had worked long and hard, fought battles beyond those with killers, to get where she was. She had not run from anything or anyone in a very long time, and she had decided she wouldn’t start now. She wouldn’t let Kunze push her out.

  Ever since the case last fall, the case in Nebraska, Kunze’s crash tactics appeared watered down. He pulled punches and held back his ordinary slew of criticism. If Maggie didn’t know better, she’d swear he’d gone a bit soft, even to the point of sounding conciliatory.

  Now, as she let too much dead air float between them, her eyes met Tully’s. In his eyes she saw the same distrust, the suspicion. And she realized, of course, it couldn’t be that simple or easy with Kunze. Trust was something earned. Kunze hadn’t gotten close to being there. Immediately she felt her guard come back up into place, just as it had earlier with Racine.

  “I’m fine with the case, Director Kunze.” She gave the lie her best shot but still couldn’t bring herself to call him “sir.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear that. Part of my job is to make sure you’re fine.”

  Maggie winced and tightened her grip on the phone, preparing herself for the punch. He had spun it just the way she expected. Same ol’ Kunze. Spider, welcome to my web.

  “So, in order to make certain you are fine, I’ve made an appointment for you,” he said. “To start the psychological evaluation we talked about. Your first session is tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock. I’ll leave it to Dr. Kernan to decide how often and how long he thinks you’ll need.”

  “Dr. Kernan? Dr. James Kernan?”

  “That’s right. If you have any questions, call my office.”

  More dead air. Only this time Kunze was gone.

  He was good, Maggie had to admit. She didn’t see that coming. And James Kernan. Who knew the old geezer was still alive? This would be worse than she’d even imagined.

  CHAPTER 20

  She was back. He was surprised. Even more surprised by the flush of sexual excitement he felt. That hadn’t happened in a long time.

  He had spent the morning watching the investigators parade in and out of the alley. A rare treat. Something he didn’t get to do very often. And the risk he’d taken to dump the body was reaping greater rewards than he’d expected.

  He wished he could see what they were bringing out in the brown paper bags. How could there possibly be so much? But of course they would be collecting evidence for the fire. They were even checking the Dumpster, going through the garbage piece by piece. He wanted to venture closer. He wanted to see everything.

  He had an insatiable curiosity. That was partly what had gotten him to start his little habit. More like a hobby, really. Though it wasn’t until recently that he’d begun keeping track of some details after discovering what a sense of accomplishment it gave him to go over the kills weeks later.

  In his logbook, he tried to record as many interesting tidbits as he could. Changing things up was so much easier when you could look back on the details and think about them. Sometimes remembering was almost as exciting as doing.

  Well, not really as satisfying. But it placated him during those days or weeks—sometimes months—when he knew he’d have a dry spell and wouldn’t be able to get on the road.

  Just this morning, after they found the body in the alley, he had pulled out his logbook and flipped to a page from another kill about a month ago. He had read his notes, memorizing the passage as if it were a poem or a psalm: “Cold night. Steam rises when you pull the guts out of the body. The blood is so warm on my hands.”

  Actually, it did sound poetic.

  The log helped control his curiosity. Allowed him to have patience. Even now, remembering that image and recalling how the blood felt on his skin were enough to soothe him. Enough to stop him from letting his curiosity push him to do something reckless just to get more information. After all, he knew how close he could get to a scene, where he could stand, how many different places he could move around to without drawing attention. There was a point where blending in crossed over to suspicion, and he had always been very good at sensing where that line was.

  He watched the alley until they took away the body. Interesting how it looked in that bag, like a long black cocoon. He liked the look of body bags. They were so much better than garbage bags—strong, more efficient. Definitely wouldn’t leak. Sure would keep his vehicle cleaner. He was wondering where he could buy one of those when he saw the woman cop back on the scene.

  Earlier he’d seen her getting into an ambulance. It made him smile because he was close enough to get a glimpse of her face. She hadn’t been pleased with the tall guy in the trench coat helping her. And she wasn’t pleased about getting inside the ambulance either.

  Confident and stubborn. Sort of like him. A rebel. A kindred spirit.

  He definitely needed a closer look at her.

  CHAPTER 21

  Tully didn’t like what he saw. Maggie looked battered, her skin washed out, her eyes a bit glassy. He could tell Racine noticed, too. Maggie claimed she had “grabbed some breakfast with Platt.” He was the one who had dropped her back at the crime scene, but Tully could hardly believe that either. How could Benjamin Platt, army colonel, MD, Mr. Button-down, have decided Maggie was good to go?

  But then Tully reminded himself that no one—not even the good doctor—could tell Maggie what to do. That she had listened to Tully earlier and gone to the hospital had been some kind of fluke, a blip on the O’Dell stubborn scale.

  He had kept his eyes on her while she talked with Kunze. He watched as their boss took her on his usual roller-coaster ride before depositing her back on the ground, dizzy and spitting mad. Actually, spitting mad was preferable to the hollowed-out look that had preceded it.

  “You knew he wouldn’t let you off the hook,” Tully said. “He made me do the same thing last year. Just as well to get it over with.”

  Yet the whole time he was telling Maggie this, Tully was thinking Kunze couldn’t have chosen an absolute worst time. She still looked vulnerable and now was dealing with new wounds. Seemed like a low blow.

  After Assistant Director Cunningham’s death, Tully had been on mandatory suspension for shooting and killing the man responsible for exposing Cunningham and Maggie—as well as hundreds of others—to the Ebola virus. It was Tully who Kunze should have been upset with. The killer, an old rival of Tully’s, had meant for Tully to be the target. He’d even sent a note at the bottom of a box of doughnuts, knowing his old friend wouldn’t resist the temptation, especially since it had been sent to their offices at Quantico.

  But Tully hadn’t been there that morning and Raymond Kunze—Cunningham’s replacement—felt it necessary to remind Tully of his absence as often as he possibly could. If that’s what he wanted to do, that was fine. But Tully wished Kunze would leave Maggie out of it. He could take care of himself. He couldn’t take care of Maggie—she’d never let him.

  Gwen said that both he and Maggie were suffering from survivor’s guilt. That’s what they called it. Seeing a shrink wouldn’t rinse it from the system. Even Kunze had to understand that. It was j
ust another form of punishment on the assistant director’s long list.

  “But James Kernan,” Maggie said, still obviously rattled by Kunze’s order. “The man was ancient and loony when I had him for Psychology 101.”

  “He knows the guy can get under your skin. So don’t let him.”

  “Who’s James Kernan?” Racine wanted to know.

  The three of them were making their way back to the alley and the Dumpster.

  “He’s a psychiatrist. Old school. His method of analysis is to badger, trick, and insult his patients.”

  “Isn’t that what all psychiatrists do? Some are just more subtle than others.”

  “She has a point,” Tully said, thinking how Gwen could get him to admit to things without his realizing it—and he was her lover, not her patient.

  The barricades erected that morning remained. Crime scene technicians and fire investigators still worked both buildings. Small groups of law enforcement officers huddled by the vehicles. Some packed evidence bags for transport. Others were on their cell phones. Several took cigarette breaks, the smoke rising into a cloud that Tully found himself thinking was just a bit too reminiscent of the one that had just been put out.

  Keith Ganza stood at the back of his van, which was parked in the entry to the alley. He looked ready to leave, back in street clothes, his Tyvek coveralls wadded up under his arm as he loaded brown paper bags sealed with bright red evidence labels.

  “Did you find anything that might ID the victim?” Tully pointed to the stash of bags already packed in the van.

  “Ask me tomorrow,” Ganza said. “Right now it’s just a bunch of charred garbage. I think I got a couple good chunks of material I can test for residues. He obviously poured gasoline back there. Wood, fabric, insulation are highly absorbent. Chromatography should break down the chemical composition of the hydrocarbons.”

  Tully pretended he understood the technical mumbo-jumbo, but he was tired. It’d been a long day and he was sure his face registered that his mind was blank.