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  “What’s in the backpack?” Maggie asked Tully, just realizing that he had it with him.

  “I don’t think it’s his. He may have found it. Or stolen it,” Tully told them as he lowered then dropped the bag from his shoulder. The whole time Maggie could see his jaw clenched against the pain.

  He tugged open a zippered pocket to show them the small blue booklet inside.

  “How many homeless guys do you know carry around their passport?”

  Racine pulled out a pair of latex gloves from her bomber jacket pocket and snapped them on. She slid the passport from the bag and carefully flipped the cover open.

  “Cornell Stamoran. Nice, clean-cut, professional young man. Blond, blue eyed. Suit and tie.”

  “The guy we’re chasing had a beard. Long dirty hair.” Maggie looked at the photo as Racine held it out. “And he looked older.”

  “The backpack might have been dropped in the alley.” Tully turned it over to show them the soot-covered flip side. “Maybe our bearded man found it where Cornell dropped it right before he got his head bashed in.”

  “You think Cornell could be the victim we found inside the building?”

  “We have his address.” Racine tapped the passport closed. “I’ll send a uniform over to see if he’s home. Might be a simple explanation. I’ve gotta get back downtown. I’d rather Ganza processes that.” She pointed to the pack.

  “I’ll get it to him,” Tully said, but kept it on the sidewalk next to him.

  Still, Racine hesitated. “You two gonna be okay?”

  “Of course we’re okay,” Tully snapped.

  “Hey, just checking.”

  The exchange made Maggie smile. She was glad to see someone else was annoyed with that question. But Tully’s forehead was damp with perspiration and it was chilly here in the shadows of the warehouses, the sun already down low in the sky.

  Maggie stood on the sidewalk beside him, watching Racine leave. Neither said anything about the back of her shredded leather jacket. It seemed the perfect symbol for this crazy day.

  “This isn’t some harmless guy who’s been living on the streets.”

  “I don’t think so either,” Tully said.

  “There was someone else down there.”

  “City maintenance?”

  “I don’t think so. He was smashing out lightbulbs.”

  This got his attention. And his concern.

  “Do you know if the tunnels loop around?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure, but it wouldn’t make sense. The purpose is to move water and sewage from point A to point B, not swirl it back around.”

  Maggie took a deep breath of fresh air. That’s what she had thought. “I heard our guy running away in front of me and I followed. But then I heard someone behind me.”

  “I suppose he could have crawled back out onto the street and backtracked. But why come back? And smashing out lightbulbs? Doesn’t sound like someone who’s afraid and running away.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “So who do you think it was?”

  She shrugged. “All I know is that for once I was really glad to hear Racine’s voice bitching at me.”

  This made him smile. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ve got a pain in the neck.” Unconsciously her fingers found the sutures, checking to make sure they were intact. “Are you going to be able to drive with that shoulder?”

  Finally he allowed a grimace. “I think I may have dislocated it. Can you fix it?”

  It had been a long time since the two of them had worked together. She’d forgotten what it was like to have someone covering her backside. Someone who hoped for the same from her.

  “Yes, I can. We need to find someplace for you to sit. You’re too tall for me.” Plus, she failed to add, she didn’t want him falling down if he passed out. “It’s going to hurt like hell.”

  “Already does.” He followed alongside her. “Don’t tell Gwen, okay?”

  Maggie smiled. She was usually the one asking him not to tell Gwen.

  CHAPTER 27

  Sam hated riding anywhere with Jeffery. As meticulous as the man was about his physical appearance it certainly didn’t carry over to his car. Before she could even climb in, she had to remove a stack of newspapers from the passenger seat, several empty cups, and a jug labeled “swimming pool cleaner” from the floor. It was disgusting. She shook her head while she readjusted the seat, thinking to herself that Jeffery didn’t even have a swimming pool.

  Of course he didn’t notice any of this. He was primed for their interview, breezing through each security checkpoint without even flinching at the trunk check or the excessive pat-downs or the warden’s snarky comments.

  She had been with Jeffery for every single interview, enduring the body searches that seemed to get more invasive with each visit, with each security check. What bothered her more was how they handled her camera equipment, purposely smudging the lens with their fingerprints. Once a guard even licked the palm of his hand before pressing it against the viewfinder. It was their way of showing they didn’t approve of the interviews.

  Jeffery shrugged it off when she told him about the harassment. All she got from him was a raised eyebrow when she showed him the used condom they had left inside her equipment bag after one visit. Of course he could shrug it off. He was the celebrity who charmed them and told them how important they were, sometimes offering to interview them as well. A safe offer, since he knew the prison rules wouldn’t allow it. Still, the guards appeared flattered. The warden, however, was a tougher sell.

  So this time Sam took pleasure in the warden’s being put out. They’d bent over backward—not necessarily a good choice of words in a prison—but they had worked hard to get interviews for the documentary. Each step of the way, the warden had made it as unpleasant and uncomfortable as possible.

  This time Jeffery had been invited, actually “summoned,” to the prison by one of the inmates. From Jeffery’s vague explanation, an arsonist named Otis P. Dodd had been sending him letters for the last three weeks, insisting that Jeffery talk to him and giving Jeffery details of his crimes as some sort of testament to his expertise.

  Sam understood why Jeffery had put the man off. All of the others they had interviewed were murderers. Poor Otis P.—as he liked to be called—had not caused a single death with any of his fires, despite setting about thirty-seven across the state of Virginia. It wasn’t for lack of trying. His last one had been a retirement center. Twenty-three residents miraculously made it out alive.

  Otis P. was serving the first year of a twenty-five-year sentence. Sam suspected he was missing the attention and excitement. Truth was, he probably wouldn’t have garnered Jeffery’s attention if it hadn’t been for the warehouse arsons. In fact, Sam wondered if Jeffery even intended to use Otis P.’s interview for the documentary or if he simply was curious what insight the man might share about arson.

  Sam was still setting up her equipment when a guard brought the prisoner into the room. He and Jeffery exchanged greetings while his shackles were being connected to iron hooks in the concrete floor. She had already seen a photo of him, yet his large physique and lopsided grin surprised her. If you ignored the receding hairline, Otis P. looked like an overgrown teenager uncomfortable with his size. His boyish face had a look of genuine curiosity and a disarming smile.

  “Will I have one of those itty-bitty microphones clipped on my collar?” he asked in a soft, gentle—almost childlike—voice, his eyes looking away from Jeffery and over to Sam.

  She pulled a wireless from her case and held it up. “Do you mind?”

  “No, I’d like that.” He licked his lips.

  To Sam’s relief the guard reached for the microphone to put it on.

  She nodded at Jeffery when the camera was ready but it was Otis P. who took her cue.

  “I have a gift for you,” he told Jeffery.

  The statement drew a stunned look from the veteran newsman that unnerved Sam. She had
witnessed plenty of Jeffery’s performances. This was not one.

  There was the smile again and another lick of his lips. Then Otis P. added, “I want to tell you where there’s a dead body. A pretty little thing wearing only orange socks.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Sam reminded herself that criminals lied all the time. During some of the previous interviews, she and Jeffery had listened to bizarre tales that murderers claimed as truth. Stories of how they stalked and killed their victims. They’d describe details as though they were proud craftsmen revealing trade secrets.

  Some even shared horrible rituals of torture that they endured as children, as if to explain or excuse their compulsions. It was almost impossible to determine what was fact and what was fiction. They were lifers with little hope of parole, so they had nothing to lose by sharing.

  But Otis P. Dodd? Sam couldn’t figure him out. What reason did he have to confess? He wasn’t asking for an attorney to be present. He didn’t seem concerned that this new revelation might cut some time off his sentence. About the only thing Sam could think that the man had to gain was attention. And he was certainly getting that.

  Jeffery leaned in and stayed uncharacteristically quiet, more patient than Sam had ever seen him. He was allowing Otis P. to take his time and Otis P. was doing just that, enjoying every second.

  “He told me she asked him for a ride. Said she was real pretty. Blond hair, blue eyes. Itty-bitty thing. But not a girl. He made sure I knew that. He doesn’t do little girls. Or little boys. No challenge in that.” He sat back and grinned, pleased to have an audience. “That’s what he said anyways.”

  He started to cross his arms over his chest before he realized his wrist was shackled to the floor. It didn’t deter him. “Her car broke down. She was stranded at one of those rest areas off the interstate. He took her to a place in the woods. Bashed her head in. But not so that she was dead. Just part dead. So when he cut her open she’d still be warm.”

  He paused with that silly grin on his face, like a little boy waiting to see their reaction, wondering if he’d be punished or praised.

  “That’s what he said. He liked it when the blood was still warm on his hands. Then he pulled her guts out just to see what they looked like. What they felt like.”

  When neither of them flinched, he continued. “He took everything off her so nobody’d know who she is. Everything except her orange socks. He wanted her to keep those for some reason. I don’t remember if he told me why. Then he stuffed her in a culvert.”

  Otis P. looked away for the first time, up at the ceiling as if trying to think if he had forgotten something.

  “At first I thought, Well, this guy is full of it, you know. I could tell he wasn’t a drinker and we were doing shots. But my daddy wasn’t a drinker and some of his biggest truth-telling came out after a shot of whiskey.”

  He shifted in his chair and looked from Jeffery to Sam and back at Jeffery. He was finished. And now he did look as though he was waiting for praise.

  “What did he look like?” Jeffery asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Otis P. shrugged and shook his head. His tongue darted out to lick his lips again and Sam realized it was a nervous habit, not meant to be salacious, as she had thought earlier. “He looked like a pretty ordinary fella to me.”

  And that was all he was going to tell them. This wasn’t about the other guy. This was about Otis P. getting attention. He wasn’t going to share his time in the spotlight, not even with the murderer whose tale he was telling.

  “I can show you where she is. He told me.”

  “What makes you think she’s still in the same place?”

  “Oh, she’s still there.”

  “You’ve been in here, what? Almost a year?”

  A nod. The tongue did a quick poke out of the corner of his mouth and slipped back inside.

  “What makes you think the body’s still where he said he dumped it?”

  “Oh, she’s still there. Ain’t nobody found her.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  “I’ve been watching.” Another shrug of his shoulder. “I know she’s still there. It’d be somethin’, wouldn’t it? Have a camera right there?” He waited to make sure Jeffery knew what he was talking about before he added, “You let me know. I’ll take you there.”

  Then he was finished. He had told them all he was prepared to say.

  It was dark outside when they made their way back to the car. Both of them had been quiet while they went through the halls and waited for the doors to unlock.

  Now out in the open, walking side by side, with no one to eavesdrop, Sam asked, “What do you think?”

  “He just wants a free road trip.”

  Sam could tell Jeffery had already dismissed the idea and she was surprised. It sounded like the sensational crap he loved. “You don’t believe him?”

  “When it comes to arson, I think Otis P. Dodd knows just about every single way to start a fire. He’s a master and his letters share all sorts of details. But this?” He waved his hand. “This is bullshit. I thought he’d give me something I could use for the warehouse fires. I’m not going to help him fly the coop or, worse, pull a Geraldo and go live only to get a frickin’ empty crypt.”

  “So what about the woman in the orange socks?”

  “If she ever existed, she’s been dead for over a year. There’s nothing we can do to help her now.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Patrick had spent the afternoon racing all over the neighborhood. He had gone door to door. Even met the asshole who, again, threatened to shoot Jake if the dog ended up anywhere on his property.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just call me?” Patrick had asked the man.

  “Not much point after the third or fourth time. My solution keeps that bastard out of my yard permanently.”

  That’s when Patrick went back, put Harvey on a leash, and the two of them set out to canvas the entire neighborhood, again. He even checked the empty house that was for sale next door to Maggie’s. Canvassed the backyard. Peeked inside the windows after he saw a light on. Lamp on a timer. People hated leaving empty houses dark, but they didn’t think about lights being a fire hazard.

  Three hours later, it was dark and still no sign of Jake.

  The thought of telling Maggie nauseated Patrick. She had gone out of her way to let him into her home and he’d let her down. How could he have been so negligent? He’d let the meeting with Braxton rattle him too much. It was just a job. Could the man really destroy his entire career over one mistake?

  Harvey jerked to the left. The Lab wanted to cross the street. His nose was in the air.

  “You smell him, Harv?”

  He let the dog lead him, allowed him to tug hard on the leash and guide him. Harvey trotted up and over the sidewalk, continuing along a ridge of pine trees, dragging Patrick to the back corner lot of a huge colonial. Before they made it to the fence Patrick could smell what had piqued Harvey’s attention. It wasn’t Jake. Someone was grilling steaks.

  They trudged home as the moon peeked from behind that same ridge of pines. Maybe Jake had come back on his own. As a boy Patrick had always wanted a dog but his mother always said no. She said a dog was too much responsibility. He longed for the company, someone to greet him at the door when he came from school to an empty home. He hated to think his mom might still be right—that he couldn’t handle the responsibility of another living being.

  He saw Maggie’s Jeep Grand Cherokee parked in the circle drive and he hoped he’d find them together. No such luck. She was at the kitchen island checking the Crock-Pot he’d left simmering.

  “Did you take the boys for a long walk?” she asked when they came around the corner. She was in her robe, her hair still wet from a shower. As she turned to look at Patrick he saw her face fall when she saw he had only Harvey. “He got out, again,” she said. Not a question. She knew.

  “I’m really sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. “We looked ev
erywhere. Twice.”

  She was trying to hide the panic he’d seen earlier, but he caught a glimpse in her eyes before she purposely turned away.

  “Maybe I should never have brought him here. So far away from everything he knew.”

  “He’s a smart dog. He’ll find his way back.”

  “That’s if he wants to.” She still avoided his eyes, but he heard the emotion in her voice. This was more than just concern for a lost dog. It cut deeper, and she didn’t want to share it. Besides that, she looked exhausted.

  She pointed to the oven, where he had left the scallops on warm. “This smells wonderful.”

  “I wanted to treat you. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m starved.”

  She bent down to take Harvey’s leash off and hugged the big dog. He sniffed the back of her neck and suddenly started a low whine.

  “Is he okay?” Patrick pulled the pan out of the oven, tipped the lid, then, satisfied, slid it back in.

  “The smell of blood makes him nervous.” She petted the dog, trying to calm him.

  “And why would he … Oh crap, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just a few stitches.”

  “What happened?”

  “A second fire blew out some windows along with the front of the building.”

  “I hate when that happens,” he joked.

  “Yes, I suppose you are familiar with that sort of thing,” she said, as if she only now remembered that he was a firefighter.

  Patrick tried to shrug it off. He pulled a bottle of Shiraz from the fridge and held it up for Maggie.

  “Not an expensive vino, but very tasty. I thought you’d get a kick out of the label.”

  “Shoofly?”

  “It’s Australian.” He tipped the bottle for her to see the decal on the cork and on the label.

  “It looks like a blowfly.”

  “Aussies have an interesting sense of humor. So what do you say, mate,” he attempted his best Australian accent, “would you like a glass?”