Count to Ten (4 page)

Until then, he had more to do. Miss Penny Hill was next on his mental list of offenders. She and old lady Dougherty had been thick as thieves. Penny Hill had believed Dougherty’s lies.
So did I, in the beginning.
In the beginning, Dougherty had promised them safety. His lips twisted.
Hope.
But in the end she’d turned, accusing them of things they hadn’t done. Her promise of safety was mercilessly broken. She kicked them out on the street and Hill had shipped them away, like cattle.
It’s for the best,
Hill had said as she’d driven them away, straight into hell on earth.
You’ll see.
But it hadn’t been for the best.

She’d lied, just like all the others. He and Shane had been helpless, homeless. Vulnerable. Old lady Dougherty was home-less. Soon enough she’d be helpless. And then dead. Now it was Penny Hill’s turn to become helpless and homeless. And dead. It was only fair. To use her own words, it was for the best. She’d see.

He checked the clock. He had someplace to be. He didn’t want to be late.

Chapter Two

Monday, November 27, 6:45 a.m

D
addy!”

The shout, accompanied by the banging on his bedroom door, sent the tie tack in Reed’s hand skittering to the floor and under his dresser. He sighed. “Come in, Beth.”

The door exploded, admitting both fourteen-year-old Beth and her three-month-old sheepdog, who took a running leap, landing in the middle of Reed’s bed. The dog shook, sending muddy water everywhere.

“Biggles, no.” Beth yanked on his collar, pulling him across the sheets to the floor where he sat, puppy tongue sticking out just far enough to make him too cute to punish.

Hands on his hips, Reed stared in dismay at the muddy streaks the puppy had left behind. “I just changed my sheets, Beth. I told you to wipe his paws and dry him off before you brought him back in the house. The backyard is a mud bath.”

Beth’s lips twitched. “Well, his paws are clean now. I’ll wash the sheets again. But first I need lunch money, Dad. The bus is coming soon.”

Reed pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Didn’t I just give you lunch money a few days ago?”

Beth shrugged, her hand out. “You want me to go hungry, or what?”

He shot her an overly patient look. “I want you to help me find my tie tack. It rolled under the dresser.”

Beth dropped to her knees and felt under the dresser. “Here it is.” She dropped it in his palm and he handed her a twenty.

“Try to make it last for at least two weeks, okay?”

She wrinkled her nose and in that moment looked so much like her mother that his heart squeezed. Beth folded the bill and slid it down into the pocket of jeans that hadn’t seemed that tight before. “Two weeks? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” He looked her up and down. “Your jeans are too tight, Bethie,” he said and she got that look on her face. Damn, he hated that look. It seemed to have appeared about the same time as the pimples and the mood swings. Reed’s sister Lauren had informed him in a dark whisper that his baby was no longer a baby. God. PMS. He wasn’t ready for this. But it didn’t seem to matter. His baby was a teenager. She’d be going off to college any day now.

His mind flitted to the victim they’d found in the rubble of the Dougherty house. If she was the college house sitter, she wasn’t much older than Beth, and Reed still didn’t know her name. He still hadn’t heard from Joe Dougherty Junior. He had been able to trace the burned-out Chevy in the garage to a Roger Burnette, but when he and Ben had stopped by the Burnette address, no one had been home. He’d try again this morning after he stopped by the morgue and the lab.

Beth narrowed her eyes, her acidic tone piercing his thoughts. “Are you saying these jeans make me look fat?”

Reed sucked in his cheek. There was no good answer to this question. “Not even close. You’re not fat. You’re healthy. You’re perfect. You do not need to lose weight.”

Eyes rolling, her tone became long-suffering. “I’m not going anorexic, Dad.”

“Good.” He let out the breath he’d been holding. “I’m just saying we need to go shopping for bigger jeans.” He smiled weakly. “You’re growing too fast, baby. Don’t you like the idea of new clothes?” The tie tack rolled in his clumsy fingers, no longer as dexterous as they once had been. “I thought all girls loved shopping.”

Quickly Beth took over the task, fixing the tie tack and smoothing his tie with a practiced hand. The look he hated disappeared, replaced by a wicked grin that made her dark eyes sparkle. “I
love
shopping. I bet we could spend six hours in Marshall Field’s alone. Sweaters and jeans and skirts. And shoes! Just think of it.”

Reed shuddered, the picture abundantly clear. “Now you’re just being mean.”

She laughed. “Revenge for the fat comment. So you want to go shopping, Daddy?”

He shuddered again. “Frankly, a root canal without novocaine seems less painful. Can Aunt Lauren take you?”

“I’ll ask her.” Beth leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the lunch money, Daddy. Gotta go.”

Reed watched her dart away, the sloppy pup at her heels. The front door slammed as Beth headed out, the sheets on his bed still muddy from the dog she’d begged him to buy for her birthday. He knew if he wanted to sleep on clean sheets tonight, he’d best change them himself. But the smell of coffee tickled his nose. She’d remembered to flip the switch on the coffee machine, so he’d cut her slack on the puppy prints. Despite her sometimes volatile mood swings, she was a good kid.

Reed would sell his soul to make sure she stayed that way. He glanced over at the picture on his nightstand. Christine serenely stared back as she had for eleven years. -Sitting on the edge of his bed, he picked up the picture and dusted the frame with the cuff of his shirt. Christine would have enjoyed Beth’s coming of age, the shopping trips, the “talk.” He doubted even the “look” would have fazed her. Once he would have damned the world that his wife hadn’t had the chance to find out. Today... he set the picture back on the nightstand so that it once again covered the dust-free strip of wood. After eleven years, the rage had become sad acceptance. What was, was. Shrugging into his suit coat, he shook himself. If he didn’t hit the road soon, traffic would make him late.
Coffee, Solliday, then get moving.

He was pulling out of his garage when his cell phone rang. “Solliday.”

“Lieutenant Solliday?” The voice was frantic. “This is Joseph Dougherty. I just got back from a charter fishing trip and my dad said you called.”

Joe Junior at last. He put the car in park and pulled out his notepad. “Mr. Dougherty. I’m sorry to have to contact you this way.”

There was a heavy sigh. “Then it’s true? My house is gone?”

“I’m afraid it’s true. Mr. Dougherty, we found a body in the kitchen.”

There was a beat of silence. “
What?
”

Reed wished he could have spoken to the man in person, but his shock sounded sincere. “Yes, sir. The neighbors said you had somebody watching your house.”

“Y-yes. Her name is Burnette. Caitlin Burnette. She’s supposed to be very responsible.” Panic had taken the man’s voice a little higher. “She’s dead?”

Reed thought of the charred body and swallowed his sigh.
Yes, she’s very dead.
“We’re assuming the body we found was your house sitter, but we’ll have to investigate before we’re certain. We’d appreciate you leaving any notification of the family to us.”

“Of...” He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

“When will you be back in town, Mr. Dougherty?”

“We weren’t supposed to come back until Friday, but we’ll try to get home today. When I know our flight times, I’ll call you back.”

Reed tossed his phone to the passenger seat, only to have it ring again. Caller ID this time was the morgue. “Solliday.”

“Reed, it’s Sam Barrington.” The new medical examiner. Barrington had taken over when the old ME went out on maternity leave. The old ME had been efficient, astute, and personable. Barrington... well, he was efficient and astute.

“Hey, Sam. I’m on my way into the office. What do you have?”

“Victim’s a woman, early twenties. Best I can tell she was five-two, five-three.”

Sam wasn’t one to call with such basic information. There had to be more. “And?”

“Well, before I started to cut I did an initial X-ray of the body. I expected to see the skull in fractured fragments.”

Which was the general way of things. Bodies subjected to that kind of heat... the skulls sometimes just exploded from the pressure. “But you didn’t.”

“No, because the bullet hole in her skull vented all the pressure.”

Reed wasn’t surprised. Still, now he had to share. He got the arson, the cops got the body. Too many damn cooks in the kitchen. He winced. So to speak. “Any evidence of smoke inhalation?”

“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” Sam said briskly. “I’m going to start the autopsy right away, so you can come by anytime this morning.”

“Thanks. I will.” He pulled onto his quiet tree-lined street, flipping on his wipers against the rain. It had been a while since he’d worked with Homicide, but he thought Marc Spinnelli was still the lieutenant there. Marc was a straight shooter. Reed only hoped the detective Spinnelli assigned wouldn’t be a know-it-all hotshot.

Monday, November 27, 8:30 A.M.

Mia Mitchell’s feet were cold. Which was really stupid, because they could be warm and toasty, propped up on her desk as she sipped her third cup of coffee.
But they’re not, because here I am,
she thought bitterly. Standing on the sidewalk, cold rain dripping from the brim of the battered hat she wore. Staring at her own reflection in the glass doors like an idiot. She’d passed through these doors hundreds of times before but today was different. Today she was alone.

Because I froze like a damn rookie.
And her partner had paid the price. Two weeks later, the moment was still enough to make her frozen. She stared at the sidewalk. Two weeks later she could still hear the crack of gunfire, see Abe -crumple and fall, the bloodstain on his white shirt spreading as she stood, slack-jawed and helpless.

“Excuse me.”

Mia jerked her chin upward, then up again, her fist clenching against the reflex to draw her weapon, her eyes narrowing beneath the brim of her hat to focus on the reflection behind her. It was a man, at least six feet tall. His black trench coat was the same color as the neatly trimmed goatee that framed his mouth. After a beat she lifted her chin another notch to his eyes. He was staring at her from under an umbrella, dark brows furrowed.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked, his voice that even, soft tone that she herself used to calm skittish suspects and witnesses. Her lips quirked up mirthlessly as his intent be-came clear. He thought she was some nutcase off the street. Maybe she looked that way. Either way, he’d gotten the drop on her and that was unacceptable.
Pay attention for God’s sake.
She searched her mind for an adequate response.

“I’m fine, thanks. I’m... waiting for someone.” It sounded lame, even to her own ears, but he nodded and stepped around her, pulling the door open as he closed his umbrella. Background noise filtered through the open door, and she thought that would be the end of it and him. But he didn’t move. He stood, studying her face as if memorizing each detail. She considered identifying herself, but... didn’t. Instead she met his scrutiny with her own, the cop part of her brain now back on full.

He was a good-looking man, darkly handsome, older than his reflection had appeared. It was his eyes, she thought. Hard and dark. And his mouth. He looked like he never smiled. His eyes dropped to her bare hands, then lifted, his expression softer. It was compassion, she realized, and the notion had her swallowing hard.

“Well, if you need a place to warm up, there’s room at the shelter on Grand. They might be able to get you some gloves. Be careful. It’s cold outside.” He hesitated, then held out his umbrella. “Stay dry.”

Too stunned to speak, she took it. Her mouth opened to set him straight, but he was gone, hurrying across the lobby. He stopped at the desk sergeant’s station and pointed at her. The desk sergeant blinked once, then nodded soberly.

Hell, Tommy Polanski was at the desk this morning. He’d known her since she was a snot-nosed kid tagging behind her dad at the firing range, begging for a turn. But Tommy didn’t say a word, just let the man walk away thinking she was some street person. Rolling her eyes, she followed the path the man had taken, scowling when a broad grin took over Tommy’s face.

“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. If it isn’t Detective Mia Mitchell, finally come back to do an honest day’s work.”

She took off her hat, shook it dry. “Got tired of the soaps. How’s it going, Tommy?”

He shrugged. “Same old, same old.” But his eyes twinkled.

He was going to make her ask, the old bastard. “So who was that guy?”

Tommy laughed. “He’s a fire marshal. He was worried you were planning to storm the place. I told him you were a regular”—his grin went wicked—“and harmless overall.”

Mia rolled her eyes again. “Gee, thanks, Tommy,” she said dryly.

“Anything for Bobby’s girl.” His grin faded, his eyes -giving her a head-to-toe once-over. “How’s the shoulder, kid?”

She flexed it inside her leather jacket. “Just a graze. Doc says I’m good as new.” Actually it hadn’t been a graze and the doctor had said she needed another week on disability, but at her growl he’d shrugged and signed her release form.

“And Abe?”

“Getting better.” So the night nurse said, every night when Mia called anonymously at three a.m.

Tommy’s jaw stiffened. “We’ll catch the punk that did this, Mia. Don’t worry.”

Two weeks later and the little punk bastard that shot her partner was still on the streets, no doubt boasting how he took down a cop twice his size. A wave of rage hit her hard, but she bit it back. “I know. Thanks.”

“Tell Abe I said hi.”

“I will,” she lied smoothly. “I need to go. I don’t want to be late my first day back.”

“Mia.” Tommy hesitated. “I’m sorry about your father. He was a good cop.”

A good cop.
Mia bit the inside of her cheek. Too bad Bobby Mitchell hadn’t been a better man. “Thanks, Tommy. My mom appreciated the basket.” Fruit baskets filled the kitchen table of her mother’s small house, tokens of respect for her father’s long, long career. Three weeks after her father stroked out, the fruit in the baskets was going rotten. A fitting end, many would say. No, many wouldn’t. Because many didn’t know.