Fireproof (19 page)

She wasn’t too stubborn to realize that her success and financial stability depended on Jeffery Cole’s success and financial profitability. He was one of the top paid investigative reporters in the country and would become even more famous when Big Mac gave him his own show. So when things got a bit crazy, Sam reminded herself that she had attached herself to his star and had to be ready for the journey. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she had sold her soul to Diablo.

She pulled her car off Interstate 66 and immediately found the diner where Jeffery had asked her to meet him. As far as she could tell, it wasn’t anywhere on the way to their next interview, but again, rather than question Jeffery, she simply followed instructions.

Sometimes he liked to eat at out-of-the-way dives, once driving them down the Virginia back roads to what looked like a two-room clapboard shanty on the river. One side sold bait and tackle, the other side served some of the best barbeque pulled pork
Sam had ever eaten. Of course, there were also those places that ripped up Sam’s stomach, like the bamboo hut in Jinja, Uganda, overlooking Lake Victoria. Never again would she let anyone talk her into eating monkey.

Today’s diner looked a bit too commercial for Jeffery, but Sam found a table by the window and waited for him.

When he came in, his face was flushed and his shirt wrinkled, the sleeves shoved up instead of neatly rolled up. He must have left his tie and jacket in the car, even though the day was a bit chilly. Sam thought he looked out of breath.

“Are you okay?”

He sat across from her, grabbing a menu before he got settled.

“Of course, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He scooted the wooden chair in, scraping the floor and arranging himself so he could see out the window. Without looking at her, he said, “They have excellent cream of asparagus soup here.”

Sam shrugged it off. Jeffery was an interesting study in contrasts: hot then cold, black and white, up and down. Like a sports car, he could go from calm to enraged in less than sixty seconds. However, she had no inclination to study him. It was tough enough keeping up with him and staying out of his way or on his good side.

“What can I get for you two?” A waitress appeared and slammed down two glasses of water. The one she set in front of Jeffery splashed over the rim.

Jeffery stared at the puddle like it was toxic waste while he held the menu, his elbow planted on the table not far from the spill. Immediately Sam’s jaw started to clench. She had witnessed him blow up at a waiter for bringing him a salad fork when he had asked specifically for a dinner fork.

“I’ll have a bowl of the cream of asparagus soup,” Sam said quickly, in an attempt to distract Jeffery.

“Oh honey, we don’t have the asparagus. It’s chicken and rice today.”

“I just told my colleague how delicious the cream of asparagus is, Rita.” Jeffery read the waitress’s nameplate with what Sam recognized as his best fake smile, the calm before the storm. “You sure your cook can’t whip some up for us?”

“Asparagus is on Mondays, sweetie. I can bring you a couple bowls of chicken and rice.”

“You know what, I bet the chicken and rice is just as delicious,” Sam said. “I’ll have that. And a grilled cheese.”

She closed the menu and slapped it down, hoping to distract Jeffery. She tried not to wince, tried not to look at him. It was never pretty. First, he’d tell the waitress that she obviously had no idea who she was waiting on. Then he’d ask to speak to the cook. Once in a Miami restaurant he made Sam translate his complaints into Spanish along with instructions on how his entrée should be cooked and served.

Sam looked away, glancing out the window to avoid watching the education of Rita. She didn’t even see the stream of smoke until Jeffery’s arm shot out across the table, pointing it out.

“What the hell is that?” He was already on his feet and headed for the door.

“One body doesn’t mean it’s a serial killer,” Maggie told Ganza. “And thankfully the Edmund Kempers of the world are still a rare breed.”

He nodded and took a bite of lasagna.

“I just can’t figure out how the arsons play into the murders,” Maggie said. “Kunze wants Tully and me to profile this arsonist, but so far he blows away—no pun intended—all the typical motives.”

“ATF’s ruled out insurance fraud, from what I’ve been told,” Ganza said.

“Did they bring you evidence from last week’s fires?”

He shook his head. “Kunze asked me to take a look at these two. Said no one could connect these warehouses. Told me to see what I could do.”

“All of the warehouses are owned by different companies, so revenge seems unlikely. They’ve all happened in the middle of the night and in the same vicinity. Racine said the cops have canvassed that whole area and have come up empty-handed.”

“Nobody’s seen anything?”

“Or they’re not willing to talk about it.”

“Looked like a homeless district.”

“It is. But if he’s targeting the homeless why dump the body of a victim from somewhere else? Someone who’s not homeless? And then not burn the body?”

“You’re sure she wasn’t homeless?”

“Shaved legs, manicure, pedicure.”

“He could have picked her up somewhere on a road trip.”

“Racine said it looked like road-trip food in the woman’s stomach. Are you thinking she may have gotten stranded?”

“Actually, I was wondering if she could have been a prostitute.”

“Somewhere along the highway?”

“I believe they call them love lizards … Wait, that’s not correct.” He held up his empty fork like an orchestra conductor, as though the gesture helped conjure up the correct term. “Lot lizards. It’s a whole subculture at interstate rest areas and truck stops. They say it’s impossible for a regular traveler to detect them but if you’re a trucker with a CB radio there are certain channels you can go to and order up prostitutes, drugs, whatever you want, wherever you want it, and any time of the day or night.”

He proceeded to fork off another piece of lasagna and stuff it into his mouth.

“And you know all this because?”

“I read about it in
USA Today
.” Ganza smiled as he continued to chew. “Actually I’m working with ViCAP on the Highway Serial Killings Initiative.”

The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program and its database had become a national repository for violent crimes. Law enforcement officials from across the country could access it to find or submit similar patterns.

The Highway Initiative had been created in 2009 in response to more than five hundred murder victims dumped along or near highways, rest areas, and truck stops. Maggie knew about it only from what she had read, despite it being an FBI-driven program.

“I’m surprised Kunze doesn’t have you working on that task force,” Ganza said. “Seems like the perfect matrix—impossible to solve, impossible to profile—just the type of assignment he loves to send you on.”

It didn’t please Maggie that so many of her colleagues saw what Kunze was doing. That reminded her. She glanced at her watch. She needed to get back to the District for Kunze’s mandatory psychological evaluation.

“You seem convinced he picked the victim up somewhere along the interstate in the Midwest.”

Ganza scratched his long, narrow jaw. “Maybe along the interstate system. I have the breakdown of the gasoline. Remember I told you that gas chromatography reveals the chemical composition of the hydrocarbons?”

“Right. Like a blueprint.”

“In this case, almost a fingerprint.”

“What are you saying? That you can tell us what company made it?”

“Better. I can tell you the gas station where he bought it.”

“And let me guess. It’s one along the interstate?”

Ganza nodded just as Maggie’s cell phone rang. It was Racine. She couldn’t possibly have the victim’s ID yet.

“Are you still at Quantico?” asked Racine.

“Just finishing.”

“Looks like he’s moved across the river.”

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“Off Interstate 66 on Fort Myers. You’ll probably see the smoke. They said it’s slowing down traffic.”

“Any chance this one isn’t related to our guy?”

“Two separate fires, three blocks apart and within about thirty minutes.”

“Sounds like our guy,” Maggie agreed.

“One difference. No warehouses this time. And there might be casualties.”

“What did he set on fire this time?”

“Two churches.”

Tully had Abe Nadira print a photo of the last frame before the man with the red backpack dropped out of sight. He also got a print of the man’s face. The zoom had reduced his features to shadowed pixels. A short beard and shaggy hair were the only decipherable characteristics. Eyes, mouth, and nose were blurs of gray and black.

Several fire investigators and crime scene technicians, along with their equipment, were still processing the rubble. Yellow police tape had been stretched around a wide perimeter to cordon off the area, but less than forty-eight hours later a couple of the homeless already had crawled under the barrier, taking up residence in the shelter of new Dumpsters and equipment that had been brought in.

It wasn’t the alley or the Dumpster that drew Tully back to the scene. He found and planted himself in the same spot where Samantha Ramirez had been when she shot the footage of the photo he had in his hand. Broken glass glittered on the ground. Most of the debris—the big pieces—had been raked and sifted. Small piles littered the cordoned-off sidewalk where investigators used the concrete as a flat, hard place to sort.

Tully held up the eight-by-ten photo Nadira had given him. He tried to match the photo’s background to what remained. Ramirez had shot this footage before the second blast, so the scene in the photo looked different from what surrounded him now.

He lined up street signs and corners of existing buildings until he was certain he had the correct angle. Then he paced out measured steps toward the area where the man was last seen.

Tully kept the photo in front of him while he walked slowly, step by step, examining the surroundings. He glanced at the grass, then the curb and street, focusing only on what was directly in his path.

After a few minutes he thought he had gone too far and started to backtrack. He stopped to study the photo. He pushed up the bridge of his glasses. In the photo, right behind the man’s right shoulder, was a light post with a flyer taped to it. Tully couldn’t make out the details on the flyer but he could see that someone had used thick swatches of duct tape to attach it to the post.

He looked around him and saw what had to be the same post. The flyer and tape were still attached but both had been pelted with debris. He stepped onto the curb and positioned himself in the exact spot where he believed the man had been standing. He checked over his shoulder to make sure the street sign was where it was in the photo. Then Tully took a deep breath.

Okay, where the hell did you go, mister?

He began a slow circle, taking in everything from door wells to fire escapes on the buildings. In the photo there were no vehicles close by for the man to duck under or hide behind. Tully made a full circle before he saw it.

Three feet to his left, steam puffed out from a manhole cover.