Mindhunters 4 - Deadly Intent (54 page)

Her focus was fixed on the blackened corpse lying inside the police tape.

A CSU tech was snapping photographs, and another man was kneeling next to the body fiddling with a machine she couldn’t make out from here. But those observations registered only dimly. It was the victim who consumed her attention.

Because her palms had gone suddenly, inexplicably damp, she wiped them on her pants as she walked with more than a little reluctance to the scene. And wished once more that she were anywhere but here.

“Which one of you took the call?” McGuire stopped outside the tape and scanned the half-dozen uniforms in the vicinity.

“That’d be us.” Two men stepped forward, both of them casting Risa a questioning gaze. One was tall and beefy, a good six inches taller than McGuire. The speaker was several inches shy of Risa’s five-ten height. With his thick neck, skinny limbs, and sturdy torso, he bore an unfortunate resemblance to SpongeBob, of cartoon fame. “Officers Tready and Lutz.” A jerk of his thumb indicated his partner as the former.

“Detective Nate McGuire. Homicide.”

The flash of Nate’s shield seemed to only partially pacify the man. He was still eyeing Risa quizzically.

“So run it down for me.” McGuire’s tone held enough of an edge that it captured Lutz’s total focus.

“The lady who found it—Heather Bixby’s her name—was out walking her dog. Wasn’t sure what it was, but the body was still smoking when she came upon it. She called 9-1-1. Tready took her statement. She’s waiting over in the car there.”

“Walking her dog in this area? Alone, while it was still dark?” Doubt dripped from McGuire’s tone as he shot a look at the car the officer had indicated. Risa seconded his disbelief. Philadelphia had dozens of parks, many of them updated with miles of paved trails. There was one within walking distance of here. While this spot, if anything, had grown seedier since her time on the force. The trees and bushes were overgrown, and it didn’t appear as if public dollars were going to be spent anytime soon on creating recreation paths for joggers.

Lutz lifted his shoulders. “That’s what she claimed, and she’s sticking with the story. Making noises about needing to get to work, so if you want to talk to her, might need to make it quick.”

“Did you see anything else? Anyone else in the area?”

This time it was Tready who spoke. His low, rumbling voice matched his craggy features. “No one. But the usual freaks who hang out here would have taken off first sign of a uniform.”

Nate nodded and dug in his pocket for a card. Handed it to Lutz. “Take the other officers and canvass the nearest neighbors. Write it up and send it to me at the homicide unit.” He headed in the direction of the witness, who was sitting on the edge of the backseat in one of the squad cars, feet on the ground, with the huge brindle mastiff planted squarely between them.

Risa hesitated. No matter how much she hadn’t wanted to come, she was stuck for the moment. And following the detective took her farther away from the blackened figure in the scorched grass. The distance would be welcome. She trailed after McGuire, who was already speaking to the witness.

“Mrs.,” she was correcting him, one hand on the dog’s neck. “Like I told them officers, I brought Buster out for a run. I just live over on Kellogg.”

If Risa remembered correctly, Kellogg was a street of tired row houses in a neighborhood still clinging to a fraying aura of respectability. Of course, that had been five years ago. Things changed fast in urban centers, and north Philly had long been one of the roughest areas of the city.

“You live there alone?”

Impatience settled on the woman’s face. “I’ve been through this once already. I live with my husband. He drives truck. I work a split shift at Stacy’s Diner, on Seventeenth and Spruce, and I’m way late. Hal—that’s my boss—is going to be a total prick about it, too. So if you could write me something, maybe on police letterhead, telling him I was helping you, it would go a long way.”

“We can work something out. So you were heading to work earlier?”

Letting out a stream of breath, Bixby leaned forward to give the dog an affectionate pat. “I came to run Buster like I do every morning. My shift starts at eight, so we left the house at five or so.”

“And you always come here?”

The woman’s hesitation was infinitesimal. “In winter we stick to the sidewalks. But yeah, when it’s nice we come here sometimes.”

“Reason I ask, it’s not the best area.” McGuire seemed impervious to the morning chill in the air, although it had Marisa turning up the collar of her spring coat. “This is a known spot for drugs.”

The woman lifted a shoulder. “Users, not dealers. And not this time of day, anyway. Doesn’t matter. No one bothers me when I have Buster with me.” She gave the animal a vigorous ear rub, which had it closing its eyes in canine ecstasy.

The woman was lying. McGuire had to realize it. But his voice was easy when he asked, “Did you see anyone else around this morning?” When she shook her head vigorously, he pressed, “Even in the distance? Someone running off, maybe?”

“No, it was just me and Buster. He was straining at the leash, dragging me toward . . . that.” Marisa resisted the impulse to turn her head in the direction the woman pointed. The longer she could put off looking at the victim, the longer she could dodge recalling elements from the dream. “I got close enough to realize it was something dead. Burned. Didn’t know if it was human, but I called 9-1-1 anyway.” Her heavily made-up eyes gleamed avidly. “It is, though, isn’t it? Human. You all wouldn’t be so interested otherwise.”

The detective reached in his pocket and withdrew a business card to give to her. “If your boss gives you any trouble, let me know and I’ll call him.” He accurately read the doubt flickering on the woman’s face. “The cell is department issued. It’ll show up on his ID screen.”

Shrugging, she slipped it into her pocket. “So I can leave?”

“Has a tech taken a sample of the dog’s hair yet?” Risa asked.

McGuire slid Risa a narrowed look. Clearly she was supposed to be seen and not heard on this outing.

When the woman shook her head, the detective said only, “Wait here. I’ll send someone over right away.”

Bixby’s voice was plaintive as Nate walked away. “But why? I really gotta get to work.”

Following a hunch she didn’t question, Risa stayed behind. “It’s in case they find hair on the scene. They need a sample from your dog, so they can eliminate it in the identification process.”

“I didn’t let Buster get close enough for there to be any of his hair on that . . . thing.” If Bixby didn’t seemed resigned to waiting, the dog did. It flopped down on its belly, drooling copiously.

Risa shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat and gave the woman a knowing smile. “So what time were you supposed to meet him?”

“Who?” Heather Bixby frowned.

“The guy you were planning to meet this morning. What time did you have scheduled?”

She had the woman’s attention now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I said I didn’t see anyone. You heard me tell that to the detective, right?”

“But you were lying. Or least not telling the whole story.” Risa squatted down on her haunches and offered the dog her hand to sniff. “If you left the house at five, you would have had to get up shortly after four. Because first you showered, dressed, put on makeup before taking the dog out to a place you had to know would be a bit messy.” She nodded at the woman’s attire. Her sneakers were muddy, as was the hem of her tight jeans. “You’re not a runner, at least not today. You aren’t dressed for it.”

“Jesus, I got ready for work first, okay?” Bixby folded her arms over her ample chest.

“You said.” Risa nodded. “Dressed and ready to go three hours before your shift. Stacy’s Diner is only a few miles from here. Walking the dog for thirty minutes still has you back home at five thirty, two and a half hours before your shift begins. Plenty of time to sleep in for another hour or two and wait for daylight. So I’ll ask you again, who were you meeting here?”

The woman smirked. “Can tell you’re no cop. Your detective skills suck. And I know when a person is just fishing. So go to hell.”

Buster was much friendlier than his owner. He gave her hand a lick and Risa stroked his massive head. “No problem. What time does your husband go to work? Maybe I’ll have better luck fishing with him.” She didn’t relish the flicker of panic on the woman’s face, but she’d also never been fond of being lied to.

“There’s no reason to bother Hal. He drives all night and needs some rest before going on the road again.”

Rising, she contemplated the other woman. “Then don’t make me.”

Moistening her lips, Bixby said, “He never even showed up. We were supposed to meet, but he was running late. I called him when I found . . . that. He said call 9-1-1 but he turned around and went home.”

Instincts she’d thought lost and buried were humming now. “Because he didn’t want to be around when police showed up.”

“It’s not like that.” But she could tell from Bixby’s expression it was
exactly
like that. “He’s still on parole. Just a misunderstanding,” she hastened to explain. “He used some of the company’s money for a couple weeks, and even though he put it back later, when the head of accounting figured it out, they nailed him on it. Bastards cost him two years in prison.”

Risa didn’t point out that two years was practically a gift for embezzlement charges. “His name.”

Bixby’s mouth set in mutinous lines. “That’s all I’m going to say. I don’t want to jam him up. He wasn’t even here and doesn’t know anything about this.”

“Your husband is Hal Bixby, right? On Kellogg Street?” Risa turned away. “Thanks for your time.”

“Wait!”

When Risa faced her again, the woman was staring at her with open dislike. “You’re a real bitch, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea.”

After several moments obviously spent waging an internal war with herself, Bixby finally said, “His name is Sam Crowley. But I swear, if you make trouble for him, I’ll hunt you down and kick your ass.” She smiled thinly. “I can be a bitch, too.

“I don’t doubt it.”

It had been far easier, Risa thought grimly, as she approached the crime, to play Bixby than it was to force herself closer to the charred remains in the grass. With every step closer her heart increased its tempo until it was a beating a rapid tattoo she feared could be heard by the officers at the perimeter.

Was that nearby tree familiar, with its branches growing in an X shape, studded with leafy buds? Perspiration dampened her brow. Her palms. What about that building beyond the trees to the west, with its boarded-up windows and tar paper roof?

“Hey, lady, you can’t go in there.” The hand on her elbow sliced through the sticky haze of memory and had her jumping in surprise. The officer released her when she shot him a look, but stood his ground. “Crime tape is up for a reason. You need to stay back.”

She was tempted, more than she should have been, to do just that. To wait quietly for the detective back at his car. To forget the dreams that seemed far too entangled with the scene inside the tape.

The dreams that had been blessedly absent for four long months.

Instead, she scanned the area for McGuire and pointed. “I’m with him. You saw us come together, didn’t you?”

The officer, with a fresh, youthful face that pegged him as barely out of the academy, looked uneasy. “Well, yeah. But I thought . . .”

Mystified, Risa waited for him to go on. “You thought . . .”

The kid—and he really was little more than that—actually shuffled his feet. “Ah . . . look! The detective is waving you over.” The relief on his face was almost comical. “Guess it’s his call if he wants you to go inside.”

Still confused, she gave a little shake of her head before bending down to snag shoe covers from the opened box at her feet. Donning them, she grabbed a pair of latex gloves from the other opened box and ducked beneath the tape. She was halfway to where McGuire stood speaking to a slender blond man standing next to the remains—

—charred bones, melted flesh
—

—when comprehension belatedly struck.

The officer had thought her presence here was due to a personal relationship with McGuire, rather than a professional one. Under normal circumstances, the realization would have had her grinning. But her chest was tight. Her throat closed. The closer she drew to the body, the more conscious effort it took to keep oxygen moving through her lungs. To resist the urge to sprint, far and fast, in the opposite direction.

“. . . use an accelerant?” McGuire was saying.

“Like I was saying . . .” The man broke off as Marisa approached. “Well, hello-o beautiful.”

Resisting an urge to look for someone he might be addressing behind her, she focused instead on the gas chromatograph the man was using. “What’d the VTA indicate?”

“Jett Brandau.”

Because it seemed churlish to refuse the hand the man thrust out, she took it for a moment. “Marisa Chandler.” When she would have pulled away, he made a point of squeezing her fingers for a moment longer before releasing them.

“Arson investigator?”

He sent a quick glance to Nate before responding. “That’s right. For the PPD.”

She nodded. As the fourth-largest police department in the country, the force was plenty large enough to employ their own arson investigators who were also trained police officers. “And the VTA results?”

Brandau patted the side of the vapor trace analyzer’s heating element. “Did three samples of the air over and around the body. Each yielded a substantial bump in temperature.”

“Meaning a flammable residue is present in the area,” she murmured, intrigued despite herself. It made sense. Setting someone on fire—if that’s what had happened here—was more difficult than it sounded. Fire required fuel. The fabric of the victim’s clothing would provide some, but with the wide range of fibers used, couldn’t be relied upon to burn evenly. If total conflagration were the intent, an accelerant would guarantee it.

“Let me know when you’re done getting the samples you need off the body so I can let the ME in. Then you can take comparison samples in the area as we finish searching each grid.”