Ashes, Ashes, They All Fall Dead (4 page)

Behind her, Matt Buchanan followed, naked except for a pair of boxers.

He lunged for the blonde. Even from where Tessa stood, she could tell the woman wasn’t trying hard to get away. She giggled like a schoolgirl and let out a shriek of laughter when Matt scooped her up in his arms and carried her back into the room.

The door slammed shut. Tessa slowly lowered her hand. Apparently Matt had forgotten about their early morning appointment.

The idea that she’d gone to so much trouble to convince her boss to let her bring the originals of the letters and envelopes, as Matt had requested, and she’d driven out to the
wilderness
in spite of her fear—rational or not—of places like this, had her clenching her briefcase so hard the handle bit into her palm.

She whirled around to go back to her car.

Matt Buchanan stood at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up at her. Beside him, a gorgeous, cinnamon-colored golden retriever panted, its tongue lolling out from between its enormous teeth, giving the appearance it was smiling.

Matt removed a small clip with a foam circle from over one of his ears, then did the same to the other. Tessa wouldn’t have had a clue what the items were except that she heard the faint sound of music. Earphones maybe? But not like any she’d ever seen before—wireless and unconnected to each other.

The music stopped, and he shoved the contraptions into his pocket while he checked his watch. “It’s only just now eight. You’re leaving?”

She looked back toward the screen door, then at Matt—a fully dressed Matt, wearing a dark blue, button-up, collared shirt tucked into his jeans. The dog beside him looked exhausted, the way it might look after finishing a long walk.

“Tessa?”

Understanding dawned and her face flushed hot, an aggravatingly common occurrence lately.

Probably because she kept making an ass of herself.

“Your brother’s inside, right?” she said. “Your twin? Austin?”

“Yes, but why are you . . .” His mouth curved into an amused grin. “Let me guess: You saw him with his latest girlfriend and thought he was me?”

“Don’t laugh. You two look
exactly
alike. And the last time I saw Austin, he was in a wheelchair. I thought his neurological disorder had gotten so bad that he’d never be able to walk again.”

Matt jogged up the steps and stopped in front of her. “His condition is so rare the doctors aren’t sure about his prognosis. But the latest neurological study has obviously helped tremendously. He’s been out of the wheelchair for a couple of months now. But he’s gone a bit wild with his new mobility because he’s not sure if the improvement is permanent. He hangs out here a lot, avoiding more lectures from Dad about his sinful, wicked ways.”

He surprised her by brushing a curl out of her face. His warm fingers lingered against her skin before he dropped his hand to his side. “And you were leaving because, what, you were jealous? Is that why you’re blushing?”

She snorted, desperately trying to cover how flustered she was and hoping he didn’t notice the goose bumps his touch had raised.

“Don’t flatter yourself. If I’m
flushed
it’s because I’m aggravated that I drove all the way out here and thought you’d forgotten our appointment.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound convinced. He pulled the screen door open and waited, arching a brow expectantly.

Hating that he could read her so easily, Tessa tried to present a calm, unaffected demeanor as she stepped inside. The golden squeezed into the doorway beside her. Tessa was only able to run her fingers through its soft fur for a moment before the eager dog raced past her, its claws clacking on the wooden floor as it slip-slid into the kitchen. The sound of loud slurping followed.

Matt shut the door, just as the sound of laughter reached them from one of the rooms off the hallway. This time it was his turn to look chagrined. “Maybe we should give Austin and his guest some privacy. I’ve got a studio behind the house. We can go there.”

“Good idea.” Tessa was more than happy to get out of the cabin. She didn’t want to hear any other sounds that might drift from that bedroom—especially with Matt beside her.

He grabbed a laptop from the desk next to a tan couch and stepped onto the porch, leaving the dog inside. Without asking, he took Tessa’s briefcase. It certainly wasn’t heavy. She didn’t need him to hold it for her. And she’d never allow someone to do that back at the office, but she didn’t see the point in arguing when there was no one else around. Although she’d never admit it to her co-workers, she kind of liked having a man open the occasional door and hold things for her. It was old-fashioned, but . . . nice.

“Is this Pierce’s old cabin?” Today she’d chosen sensible flats and a pair of slacks, so she was able to keep up with Matt’s long strides without worrying about her heels digging into the ground.

“No. I built this myself last summer. With the help of Buchanan and Buchanan Construction, of course.”

“It’s beautiful.”

His brow rose. “I didn’t think you’d like it.”

“Why not?”

“I thought you were more the urban type, like Madison. I never figured you’d like anything remotely country.”

Great, she had something in common with Madison. And from the teasing way Matt was looking at her, she had a feeling he knew just how much that irritated her. Rather than rise to the bait, she changed the subject. “Was that your golden or Austin’s?”

His eyes lit with pleasure and his sensual mouth curved in a sexy grin. “Ginger. She’s mine, and the main reason I bought this land, so she’d have room to run. I rescued her from a kill shelter.” His mouth tightened, as if the idea of a kill shelter was an unpardonable sin.

Tessa almost groaned out loud. He bought this land for a dog? A dog he’d rescued from a shelter? How was she supposed to get over her unwanted attraction to him if he kept being so noble and so . . . perfect?

Just remembering Casey’s words about how hard she’d worked to gain the respect of her peers in the FBI’s old boys’ network was enough to ground her again. He was right. She
had
worked hard. And her peers did respect her. She couldn’t throw that away by falling for a man so much younger than her. She could just imagine the teasing that would go on if the guys in the office ever found out. They’d probably leave stuffed cougars all over her desk, and everything she’d worked for would be destroyed.

Thankfully there were no more unwelcome revelations to weaken her resolve before they reached Matt’s studio, a building the size of a two-car garage about fifty yards from the cabin. The doors resembled those on a barn, but instead of opening on hinges, they slid back on rails. Matt tucked his laptop under his arm and set Tessa’s briefcase down so he could push one of the doors back.

Tessa picked up her briefcase and went inside, leaving Matt to close the door. The word
studio
described the space perfectly. It was one big, open room. A pair of sliding glass doors opened off the back, framing a lily pad–clogged pond, like a picture. A microwave oven sat on top of a miniature refrigerator in one corner, and an open door in another corner revealed a tiny bathroom.

The center of the room was occupied by an enormous table, with a computer monitor sitting on top. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves sagged beneath the weight of books and boxes all along the back wall. Aside from the chairs pulled up to the table, there wasn’t any other furniture.

“I take it my studio doesn’t have the appeal the cabin has.” Matt hooked the laptop to the monitor and powered them both up.

“Uh, no. I mean, it’s fine.”

“You don’t lie very well.” He smiled, took the briefcase from her again, and placed it on the table.

His easy smile was a surprise. The Matt she remembered was always serious and didn’t say much. This older Matt seemed more comfortable in his own skin, confident, relaxed.

“Do you mind?” He’d sat down and his hands were poised to click open her briefcase.

“Of course not, go ahead.” She sat beside him.

He pulled out the plastic bags, each one containing a letter and the envelope it had come in.

“You brought the originals?” He sounded surprised.

“I told Casey you wanted to see them, and that we should be accommodating since you were helping us out. As long as I keep them with me at all times, chain of custody isn’t broken.”

“I’m sure there was a lot more to that conversation than you’re letting on. It couldn’t have been easy to convince him, but thanks. I appreciate it.”

She nodded, feeling uncomfortable with his praise. She was used to fighting with him. She was
not
used to this almost friendly, polite, back-and-forth between them.

“Can we take them out of the bags?” he asked.

“One at a time, so we don’t mix up the envelopes. I’ve labeled them in the order in which they were received. The last one has the name Sharon Johnson on it.” She pulled out a pair of latex gloves for each of them from her briefcase.

While Matt studied the letters, Tessa studied him. For a man who was over six feet tall with a muscular physique strengthened and honed by hard work at his family’s construction sites, he handled the letters with amazing gentleness. He studied each one, scanning every inch, as if the fibers that made up the paper could tell him something equally as important as the words written on the surface.

“Have you identified the type of paper or performed any tests on these?” he asked.

“My boss couldn’t justify the expense of using the FBI lab to perform the kinds of tests that might tell us the paper’s origin. Without proof of a ‘real’ crime, he’s not willing to spend the resources. So, the only tests we ran were to look for fingerprints.” She pointed to a small, dark smudge on one of the letters. “That’s powder from where we took a latent.”

“I noticed there are both male and female names on these letters.”

“Yes. I know that’s unusual for a serial killer, if that’s what we’re dealing with here. They tend to stick to one type of victim, all male or all female. But not always. Richard Ramirez—the Night Stalker—killed both men and women. There are other killers who did the same.”

“It seems as if he wants to be caught, that he’s sending these letters to give the FBI clues to find him,” Matt said.

Tessa shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s almost unheard of for a serial killer to purposely try to be caught. That’s not how their brains work. It’s more likely that he’s sending the letters to brag about his kills. It’s a way for him to gloat, to get another thrill.”

He nodded as he sifted through the rest of the letters. “Any ideas about the Ashes, Ashes line?”

“My working theory is that the killer is fascinated by fire, possibly a serial arsonist.”

His gaze shot to hers. “If that’s true, wouldn’t you expect to find the victims’ names in arsonist murder investigations? You said you searched law-enforcement databases.”

“The databases are only as good as the data in them. I couldn’t contact every single law-enforcement office in the country. If he’s killing people in isolated, rural areas, with small populations, the law-enforcement agencies there might not be equipped with a linkup to the FBI. That’s why I’m so desperate for a lead. If I could just figure out a place to look, a place to begin, I could get this guy.”

He held one of the envelopes up to the light. “I see what you meant about the postmarks. They’re from all over. No obvious geographical patterns, other than being east of the Mississippi River and south of the Mason-Dixon Line.”

“Right, which makes it hard to narrow down where he’s operating from, his home base.”

“Assuming he has one.”

She nodded. “Yes, assuming he has one. He could be a nomad, traveling in an RV or just going from hotel to hotel. But even if he stayed at the cheapest dives, it would be expensive to maintain that kind of lifestyle for long. It’s far more likely he travels when he’s looking for victims and otherwise has a place he calls home. And a job.”

Matt raised a brow. “Because people with enough money to travel all the time don’t become serial killers?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m playing the odds.”

He pointed to one of the letters. “What about this little curlicue at the end of the Ashes line? It’s on every letter. Any idea why he adds that mark?”

“No. We haven’t been able to identify it, although it looks vaguely familiar. Or maybe it’s just so ordinary-looking it seems familiar, like a little squiggle someone might make when they’re doodling on a piece of paper.”

“Maybe.”

When he finished looking at the letters and envelopes, he rested his forearms on the table. “Twenty-three letters. There are all kinds of numerology theories about the number twenty-three, basically saying nearly everything that happens can be related back to that number. Some people associate it with the apocalypse. Add up the numbers for the date of the World Trade Center attack—nine for September, eleven for the day, the two, zero, zero, and one in two thousand one—that equals twenty-three. The Unabomber hurt or killed twenty-three people. I could go on, listing other historical events where twenty-three is significant.”

“I’m sure you could, since you have a master’s in mathematics,” she said drily. “I hadn’t thought about the number of letters as being significant, other than that there are a lot of potential victims.”

He shrugged. “It may not be significant, especially if he sends more letters. I’m just throwing that out there. You never know which facts might become significant in an investigation until it’s over. You said the letters were all mailed in the past three years?”

“Yes. They’ve trickled in at no particular interval, the latest just last month.”

“And you’ve searched for hits on the names on the letters and haven’t found any?”

“I said none of them panned out. I didn’t exactly say there were
no
hits. Two of the names came up during the initial database search. Our cold-case unit solved one of the cases, tying it back to the victim’s ex-husband. The second case is still unsolved, but there’s nothing about it that makes it seem likely it’s related to the letters. I went over all of the cold-case team’s work and agree with their conclusions.”